


Follow Me There

by troiing



Category: Holby City, Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-09-23 01:20:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9634238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troiing/pseuds/troiing
Summary: Hollow Earth abnormals have migrated to the surface en masse.  Helen Magnus has arranged for a military liaison from the Lotus Defense Corps to join the UK Sanctuary, but its Head of House, Serena Campbell, is not convinced.  Can Major Berenice Wolfe change her mind?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, y'all can thank brosephine-grant @ Tumblr for this mess. I'm having a lot of fun! Chapters should be pretty short for this one, honestly. We'll see where it goes!

It's Helen, not Serena, who arranges for Bernie to visit the Sanctuary. It's got Serena in a tiff, too: Helen may be the head of the Network, but the UK Sanctuary is Serena's to run, thanks very much.

Still, there's no arguing with her; the arrangements have already been made. It doesn't stop Serena from offering Helen a very pointed glare before snapping her laptop shut to close the conference call, or from huffing and stomping her way through the Sanctuary for the next several hours. Nobody's blind to her mood, either. They stay out of her way, and she contemplates the best way to sabotage the arrangement.

Unfortunately, Helen Magnus is the only person Serena knows who is better at getting what she wants than Serena herself.

It's part of why the UK Sanctuary fell to her after Watson's death. It's the original Sanctuary, and still holds an important place politically for the Network. And Serena has the silver tongue and political savvy to keep things rolling on this side of the pond.

They may be friends, but if Helen thinks for even a moment that Serena isn't going to do everything in her power to subvert this _arrangement_ , then she doesn't know Serena very well at all. Serena wants nothing to do with a military liaison, after all. The Hollow Earth insurgence had been bloody well botched up on all ends. She doesn't need the UN on her turf, doesn't want to deal with this Major Wolfe, wants nothing, _nothing_ to do with the bastards who as good as declared war on their organization and interred hundreds of refugees. Doesn't care that Helen seems to think it's a necessary and intelligent move. Doesn't care that Helen thinks they can use this person to their benefit. Doesn't care that this Bernie is supposedly sympathetic to their cause.

...but then, maybe Helen does know her rather well. After all, she can't think of any other reason for opening the door to a slim blonde in full dress uniform.

Damn that woman.

For a long moment, Serena only stares, confused and dumbfounded, and yes, even a little breathless. Serena appraises the woman, eyes casting down her frame and back up again. Sun filtering languidly through the cloud cover catches in the errant fringe tucked behind her ear. She's slim, yes, but solid; the brief glance at her calves tells Serena that.

She'd prepared herself for a man (honestly, _Bernie_?), probably in field dress, definitely rough around the edges, all politics and no compassion - fit to barrel his way in without stopping for directions. She's not even sure why, really; Helen had promised someone worthwhile, after all. But then, Helen sometimes skewed the truth to get her way, and really, nothing good had come from the LDS so far; why should they start now?

Regardless, the woman stands quietly on the front stoop, shifting from one foot to the other slightly even as she stands at attention, eyes casting uncertainly across Serena's face.

“Er… Major Berenice Wolfe,” she supplies in the wake of Serena's continued, uncertain staring. “I… believe I'm to meet a Dr. Serena Campbell?”

“I… yes,” Serena replies after a moment, blinking rapidly as she gathers her wits about her again. “I'm sorry, I was expecting a… well, Dr. Magnus mentioned I'd be meeting with a Bernie. I was expecting, ah...”

“Villanova himself?” the woman asks with a slight lilt to her voice. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Ha! Yes, well, you'll have to do I suppose. Berenice, is it?”

The Major wrinkles her nose, and Serena is struck instantly by the expression. It's light-hearted and, frankly, adorable. She'll never forgive Helen for this. “I always preferred Bernie, actually,” Bernie supplies, lips curving slightly. For a moment, she looks like she wants to say something else. In the end, she simply brings her hands from behind her back to clasp in front of her. “May, uhm… may I come in?”

“Right! Yes, of course. Silly me,” Serena declares, forcing a laugh as she steps back from the door and allows it to swing open. “I suppose you'll want the tour. Do you know what you're getting yourself into, Major?”

“Please, just Bernie. And I was on the ground as medical personnel while the refugees were being loaded, so I've seen - ”

Serena snorts caustically. She can't help it. Bernie pauses, freezing mid-stride, and Serena stops half a step in front of her. “Sorry. Trust them to send in military medics who don't even know what species most of those people are while barring the experts from the ground.”

Bernie scuffs her heel before stepping forward again. “It wasn't a good call, no. Though I confess I had received some training beforehand; Lotus doesn't go into anything completely blind. I'd like to think I'll learn a great deal more here, though.”

Now the distrust wells up again, and Serena makes a doubtful noise. “Yes, I'm sure you would.”

Serena watches from the corner of her eye as Bernie presses her thin lips into a thinner line. “You know, I come in peace,” she says after a moment.

Again, Serena grunts in response. “There's only one way for me to find out if that's true, you know. This situation is very high risk for us and not at all for you, and I have no idea what the rewards might be. Frankly, I don't believe any of this is necessary at all. And Dr. Magnus may believe you're worth the trouble, but I do not.”

Bernie doesn't hesitate. She simply shrugs. “Fair enough.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sanctuary co-Mums activate!
> 
> Mentions of blood, injuries, and the American War in Afghanistan, recreational drinking and perfectly legal, medicinal drug use in this one, but nothing graphic.
> 
> No betas, we die like men.

Bernie gets the tour. She helps with feedings, learns the residents’ schedules, commits to memory what knowledge she can about the species living within their walls. Serena suggests tasks for her like pop quizzes, keeping her on her toes.

She does not disappoint, but it's weeks before Serena begins to warm to her.

Finn, a nineteen-year-old flying abnormal, is stretched across an infirmary bed in the haze of a mild dose of benzodiazepines when it happens.

“How on earth did you manage this?” Serena asks, pushing his left arm upward to further examine the tear in his bat-like wing membrane.

He laughs nervously, swallows. “Could use some water.”

“I bet you could,” Serena growls, pulling a chair close and wrapping his fingers around a slat in its back. “Keep it there. What happened.” It's not even a question so much as a demand. When she sets about cleaning the area around the tear, her hands are significantly gentler than her voice.

“I… well, I was out with the boys, had a few drinks…”

“Of course you did.”

“It was an accident, alright? I'm sorry.”

Serena snorts. “You don't need to apologize to me for injuring yourself. But I don't have to let you stay here either. The Sanctuary exists to protect those who need protecting, not as a place for unruly children to crash between wild nights. You are my responsibility only so long as you are a resident here. That arrangement can end at any time.”

Finn looks exceedingly uncomfortable for a long moment, then swallows again. “Yes, mum. Er, ma'am.”

Serena's brow shoots up in response, followed by a glare as Bernie sniggers from across the bed. The laughter only serves to put a lopsided grin on Finn's face, though he manages to resist laughing at his own joke.

“Very funny. Major, any suggestions?”

“It's B- ” Bernie stops herself, but not before quelling the henpecked look that crosses her face. Serena has called her nothing but “Major” since she arrived. “It's living tissue, and the tear’s not too severe, so it should heal on its own,” she says after a moment, jaw tight when she speaks. “Stitches may or may not prove beneficial. Bed-rest and a broad-spectrum antibiotic certainly.”

“What's the coolest thing you've ever done?” Finn suddenly blurts, and Bernie blinks down at him in surprise.

“The coolest?” she asks, furrowing her brows.

“Yeah, you're an army doctor, right? So - ”

“Being a front line surgeon isn't _cool_ ,” she corrects, sternly but evenly. “War isn't a game, Finn.”

“Sorry.” Finn's voice is almost meek. Bernie pats his good arm. 

"But I did get to save a lot of lives too,” she says more gently, expression thoughtful. She goes silent for a moment, and Serena doesn't even think to interrupt her.

“There was a boy in Afghanistan,” the Major finally says, chewing on her lower lip. “A little younger than you. In _bad_ shape. So bad some of our unit wanted to leave him be; he wasn't one of ours, and his chances weren't good. But my friend Alex and I, we… we couldn't do it. It was about ten o'clock when we found him, and we worked through the heat of the day, on our knees, taking shrapnel out of him, stopping bleeds. The medics assisting were pouring water into our mouths and mopping sweat off our faces more often than handing us tools. The sun was almost gone when we finally finished.” Serena realizes only when Bernie's dark eyes rise to meet hers that she's been staring. The woman's lips curve into a vague smile, and Serena busies herself again examining Finn's leathery wing. “He made it,” Bernie finishes after a moment, and Serena lifts her gaze again to watch the smile warm in Bernie's eyes. “I even have a letter from his mum.” 

“Can I see it?” There's curiosity, excitement, even awe in Finn's voice, and Serena bites back a chuckle. 

“It's written in Persian script, so you won't be able to read it, but I can show you.” 

“Oh. I'd like to see.” For a moment, he's quiet. “Was he Muslim?” he asks after a span. Not with judgment, but innocently, curiously, Serena notes gratefully. Maybe even approvingly. Though technically an adult, Finn is still very much a child with a lot to learn. 

Bernie exhales swiftly through her nose, and Serena's gaze flashes up to the other woman's face again. “I don't know. Maybe. Probably. I know he was a victim. I know I was a doctor who found him in time to save him. Should his religion or anything else matter?” 

The boy is quiet for a moment before shrugging his right shoulder upwards. “I guess not.” 

“Me too.” 

They're all three silent for a moment after that. Serena breaks it by clearing her throat. “Stitches or no, Bernie?” she asks. She and Bernie both start at the slip of tongue, staring at each other awkwardly, and when Bernie is silent Serena dives in to correct herself. “Major?” 

Bernie suddenly circles the bed, leaning over at Serena's side. Her arm is warm when it brushes Serena's, and her flyaway curls catch up on Serena's shoulder as she bends for a closer look at the injury. “No,” she says softly after a moment. “But you'll have to take it easy, Mr. Wieme. Bed-rest and regular checkups to make sure it's mending well.” 

“Yeah. Yeah. Good. Really didn't want stitches. Thanks.” 

“Fetch that glass of water, would you, Major?” Serena suggests. “Mr. Wieme is going to stay here and sleep off the rest of his hangover. Isn't that right?” 

“'Course, doc. Great idea. Bloody brilliant, even.” 

_“Careful.”_

“Right.” 

Once Finn's set up with antibiotics, a cup of water, and a promise not to cause any trouble for Lucian (a nurse who, despite his imposing appearances, is a known pushover), Bernie follows Serena out of the infirmary. 

“Mr. Wieme doesn't spend much quality time with the news,” Serena says almost as soon as the door closes behind them. Bernie gazes at her for a moment, but Serena merely plows on. “So all he hears is the more extreme views, rumour blown out of proportion for lack of any grounding in fact, other people's opinions... Doesn't mean he agrees with them, but he doesn't care enough to expand beyond them. Too complacent. Too young, maybe.” In a way, she means it as an apology. “He's a good boy, more or less, but…” 

“I'd like to spend some time with him.” It's sudden, no preamble. Matter-of-fact. 

Serena frowns, genuinely surprised by the statement. “Oh?” 

"Well, he's interested in war stories, by all appearances. Maybe. Perhaps talking about the wars, why they happened, the people involved… maybe it would help him form more informed opinions. With his experience as an abnormal human to draw from… He's clearly not the sort to dehumanize. He just needs a little help along the way.” Bernie shrugs. “Maybe all he needs is a touchstone.” 

Serena stops in her tracks, staring at the army medic with furrowed brows for a long moment when Bernie comes to stand beside her. Her tone and expression are sincere, and Serena doesn't quite know what to think. Why should a Lotus soldier want to better an abnormal boy in this way? All those damned people in the LDC want is war. They're as bad as the Cabal, but even more self-righteous. 

Still, she believes Bernie. She can't help it. It's the most Bernie's said at one time since she walked through the Sanctuary doors, and that can't be without reason. Serena takes a deep breath, breathes it out again, and offers the other woman a tight smile. “Of course. I certainly haven't been able to get through to him. If you can, well...” She gestures vaguely with her hand as she trails off. 

Bernie grins, gives her an odd little wink. “Challenge accepted.” 

And endears herself to Serena a little more. 

“Er… Charlie has an odd mass behind its right forelimb,” Serena says suddenly. “Unfortunately, we don't know enough about it or its species to say much without further study. It’s consented to some exploratory tests, if you'd care to assist?” 

Bernie hesitates a little when Serena moves off again, and draws up beside her a little belatedly. “Charlie can consent?” 

Serena snorts, and suddenly it's very easy to don the air of the disapproving Head of House again. “Of course it can. Blue skin for approval.” 

Bernie sighs. “I know that, I just meant. I thought its comprehension was a bit more… abstract." 

The truth is, when she glances over at Bernie again, Serena doesn't want to disapprove of her. “Well it is,” Serena replies, suddenly grinning. “You just have to know how to talk to it.” 

“And how is that?” 

Serena only arches a brow, turning to offer Bernie a coy look. “Abstractly,” she says unhelpfully, and quickens her pace. “Are you helping, or not?” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you beautiful people aren't familiar with Sanctuary, or maybe it's been a while since you watched, so there's a very brief rundown of the political shitstorm that has been going on in Sanctuary canon at the end of the chapter. Hopefully it'll clarify some points rather than confusing you more lol)

“Well, you never could resist a man in uniform,” Helen is reasoning from a window that takes up most of the computer screen. “I find Major Wolfe wears one quite well herself.”

“Well it wasn't fair,” Serena says in near-perfect deadpan, the complaint halfhearted at best.

They've been at it for several minutes already; it's the first time they've had a proper conversation since Bernie began her stint as liaison; Helen has been tied up lately. Between tracking down the Crixorum responsible for leading the Hollow Earth armies, laying about (okay, fine, doing business) in Comoros, and all the other globe-trotting and mischief Helen gets up to when she's bored or times are tough (definitely the latter, recently), there hasn't been much time for anything other than passing updates. Meanwhile, the Major has been spending more and more time at the Sanctuary. As they become more closely acquainted, Serena is finding it increasingly more difficult to hate Bernie as an individual, and finding herself increasingly more agitated with Helen for knowing exactly what strings to pull and when.

You don't get to 270 on good looks though, she figures. Helen's recent brush with the UN is a testament to that. They've been cut loose from United Nations funding, but Helen's poker face on the conference call that announced this change doesn't fool Serena at all. Helen Magnus has enough money vaulted away in secret to go on for years without government aid.

“Oh, please. You're too transparent.” But Helen's eyes are glittering, and her lips curl into a crooked smile. “Really though. How are things going? And don't posture with me.”

Serena, who had previously been preparing to launch into a list of imaginary complaints, merely rolls her eyes and deflates a little. Helen knows her much too well. “I still don't trust her,” she says after a moment. “Not completely. I still don't like it. But…” She trails off, then sighs. “She's coming along. She seems genuinely interested in what we're doing. Whether that's good or bad remains to be seen. And… You're familiar with Finn, of course.”

“I haven't determined if it's genetic or happenstance that all flying abnormals with his particular gift have such big personalities,” Helen says as confirmation.

Serena snorts. “She's taken special interest in him.”

“Oh?”

“You know how he is. He lives in his safe, Sanctuary-sized bubble and occasionally gets up to mischief with friends. But he's coming along.” She shrugs slightly, not quite able to keep the affection from her voice. She has herself quite thoroughly convinced that it's just for Finn. “I don't know. She's made an impression on him. I think he's beginning to see himself as part of something larger than himself, and how his experience parallels other people's experiences.”

Helen allows the words to sink in for a moment, brows furrowed. Then, shaking her head, she laughs quietly.

“What?” Serena demands, suddenly frowning.

“Nothing. Just. You can say all that and still tell me that you don't trust her.”

Serena draws her lips tight. “I don't trust very many people, Dr. Magnus. For good reason. Least of all LDC members.”

“I know, Serena. And it's not unfounded,” Helen concedes, holding her hands up in a gesture of surrender. “But you do know she came to me, don't you?”

“All the more reason not to trust her.”

Helen makes a derisive noise and rolls her eyes. “Honestly, Serena. Manipulation isn't Lotus' game. They're even more transparent than you are. And if she had any secrets, I'd know them.” Helen pauses, gazes straight into the camera so it feels like her eyes are boring into Serena's. “You and Bernie have more in common than you think. Give the woman a chance. You might even find you like her. And if you're right, I'll eat my words.”

“If I'm right, it's all over,” Serena snaps in reply. She doesn't quite mean it as bitterly or with as much certainty as it comes out, but one thing that's always irked her about Helen, friend or not is the presumption that she knows Serena better than Serena knows herself.

Helen's responding laugh - quiet and dark - startles her. “It's already over, Serena,” Helen murmurs, and the very breath chills in Serena's lungs at the strange statement. Helen is not defeatist by nature, and things are, by all appearances, going her way. But leave it to her to keep secrets. “You just haven't seen it yet.”

Helen reaches forward, and Serena bolts upright. “Don't you dare end this call like tha - ”

Her screen goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, yes, Helen is around 273 years old.
> 
> The beginning of this fic references refugees from Hollow Earth. These abnormal ("monster" if you will) refugees emerged from below ground in South Dakota. They were relocated to Old City, near Magnus' Sanctuary, where the Lotus Defense Corps (a highly militarized private agency working closely with the UN) basically take over.
> 
> A whole mess occurs there, and the ~~Scooby~~ Sanctuary Gang realizes that it's a plot to hide a larger invasion force, but nobody listens bc apparently Lotus is better at this job than the people who've literally been doing it for over 100 years. Armies of abnormals then emerge from calderas in Chile, Indonesia, and Russia. General Villanova (leader of the LDC aka Stargate SG1's Maybourne so you know he's bad) realizes he's an idiot, the UN liaison facepalms for giving him control, etc.
> 
> At this point in this story, the refugees-turned-hostage have returned to Hollow Earth with a new leader to establish a new home there (theirs was destroyed), and there's basically a huge growing presence of other abnormals who want to take over the surface. The Sanctuary network, world governments (especially the UN), and LDC are basically all trying to deal with this in different ways and causing problems for each other. Meanwhile, Helen is breaking all ties with the government, etc, so they can do their Sanctuary thing without prying eyes.
> 
> She has a plan and Serena is somewhat but not entirely savvy to it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real science is fake, sanctuary wannabe science is where it's at

Charlie is pregnant. Well, sort of. The mass Serena found behind its forelimb is definitely Charlie Junior. At first, this doesn't seem to have any effect on the creature (whose species they still haven't decided on a name for, mostly because they still know so very little about it), but as the mass becomes larger, Charlie's skin keeps a horrible yellow glow, and it emits shrill noises at intervals. And Serena, who prides herself in being able to understand the creature, can't make heads or tails of the situation. It doesn't seem to be in any profound amount of pain (besides, pain is a sort of fluorescent fuchsia colour, not yellow), but it is most assuredly in an incredible amount of distress.

It becomes so much that the staff take turns spending time with it. Charlie cannot be left alone anymore, plain and simple. It is already in enough distress; being left alone makes is behavior all the more dramatic.

Even Bernie sits in - at her own request, not Serena's. In fact, after a couple of days it's mostly just a rotation of Serena and Bernie during the day, Lucian and Marina at night. It takes a few days even after that, but eventually, Serena begins to notice something:

Charlie is in significantly less distress when Bernie is with it.

This in itself is odd; as far as Serena knows, Charlie has never displayed any particular preference for any one person over others. But then, she's the best at communicating with it. Maybe she's just blind to the bias because she's on the inside of the issue? Either way, she begins to notice that the yellow of Charlie's skin fades to a pale goldenrod when Bernie is in the room, and brightens again to that putrid shade whenever she leaves.

“What are you doing?” Serena asks one day as she enters the lab, moving up behind where Bernie sits. She has her chin in her hand, watching the bizarre little creature fuss with its bedding.

“How d'you mean?” Bernie asks, craning her neck around to glance at Serena.

“Charlie likes you.”

Bernie frowns, then shrugs. “Oh, I don't know about that.”

“Have you seen how its skin changes colour? When you're not around, it's that ugly… well, it's distressed, anyway. It's almost calm when you're here.”

Bernie turns back to the glass-paneled enclosure and shrugs one shoulder again. “I don't know,” she mutters, wrinkling her nose thoughtfully. “Well, you were the one who said it communicates abstractly.”

“Yes…”

Bernie tilts her head to one side. “Some of it's empathy, yes?” Serena nods in confirmation after taking a seat beside her, and Bernie continues. “Well, what do you know about it? You found it alone, cowering, with the remains of one of its kind nearby, but you don't know enough about its life cycle to know how old it was when you found it, or even how mature. You don't know how it communicates with its own kind, or if a parent would have taught it about its own reproduction process, or… anything, really. All you have is a crude manner of communication that may or may not be the extent of its ability to communicate with humans. You know it has no concept of sex, it hasn't displayed any true personality or sense of self…”

Bernie pauses, chews on her lip. “I don't know, Serena. This whole thing, it's just a force of nature, isn't it? As far as we know? Everything's changed for it and it doesn't know how to cope.”

Bernie pauses, eyes casting over the enclosure, then surprises Serena with her next words, spoken slowly and uncertainly. “I was married once. Felt a bit like a force of nature. I just… did it because it was the thing to do. I liked him well enough, and Marcus was a good man, and he asked me… and I just let the current take me. I married him, and suddenly it was like everything around me changed and I didn't even realize it until it happened.

“I guess I'm saying I empathize, in a way. Maybe that's it.”

Without thinking, without looking at the other woman, Serena reaches across her body to lay a hand on Bernie's forearm. Bernie starts, but Serena doesn't quite realize what she's done until Bernie turns her head to look at her. “Oh… sorry,” Serena mutters, giving the arm a pat before withdrawing to fold her arms in front of her, forearms resting on the table. It's a garbage job of playing it off as an accident, but Bernie has the decency to turn her own attention back to the abnormal enclosure as well, following Serena's gaze.

Serena blinks when her eyes land on Charlie. “What on…?”

She rises from the chair, moving closer to confirm what she's seeing. Not a trick of the eye or the light in the room: Charlie is sort of an orangish colour now. Or rather, the yellow of stress is interspersed with patches of a sort of washed-out red that Serena has never seen before. It's not the garish pink of pain, and Charlie seems quite calm, considering.

Serena turns to find Bernie's eyes, instinctively looking for another opinion, and Bernie has her lips pursed, gazing thoughtfully at the creature. She meets Serena's gaze after a moment, but says nothing.

It's a moment before Serena realizes she's staring.

“Er… I take it you haven't seen this?” Serena asks lamely, brushing absently at the nape of her neck.

Bernie shakes her head. “No. It's mostly been all the same thing, really.”

“Hm. Well, there isn't much point trying to figure out what it means until after this reproduction fiasco is over. I… I think I may visit with it properly though. Would you mind terribly getting one of those towels? It's shedding like mad these days.”

“Of course,” Bernie says. Just _says,_ Serena realizes… which may not seem like much, but the Major has done nothing short of support all of them in her time here.

Serena shakes the thought away, moving around to the side to unlock the smaller enclosure door. “Come along, little one,” she murmurs. Charlie doesn't seem to have much trepidation about creatures larger than it, so long their good intentions are made obvious. “Come sit with Auntie Serena, hmm?”

It does, hobbling along to the opening just as Bernie returns with the towel. 

“Here.” Bernie hands over the towel and nods for Serena to get situated. Serena shrugs and moves back over to her chair, draping the towel over her lap. She watches as Bernie coaxes Charlie the rest of the way over and lifts it into her arms, taking care not to disturb the swollen bud or get too much fur on herself.

They settle the creature into Serena's lap, where it sprawls across her knees with a subtle croon.

“You know, judging by the size of this and how large Charlie was when we found it, we should have a little one any day now,” Serena observes, smoothing her hand over Charlie's stiff, translucent fur.

“You think so?”

“Well, it's only an educated guess, but yes.” They're quiet for a moment, Bernie standing nearby with her hands her pockets. But when Bernie's feet shuffle on the ground, an indication that she's going to leave, Serena remembers something. “Bernie?”

“Yes?”

“I have a nephew, Jason. He's been overseas - at the Old City Sanctuary, actually. He's coming home tomorrow.” Truth be told, he's been gone much too long, working with Henry on rewriting some older systems. That work was done a while ago, but frankly, Serena hadn't wanted him to return while Bernie was around. A member of an organization who shunned people for physical abnormalities couldn't be expected to respect someone who was neurodivergent, could they? Diversity was not the LDC’s cup of tea; the Sanctuary's founding principle was that diversity is precious. Bernie has proven that she's not of the same mindset as the rest of her Lotus counterparts, at least… Even still, Serena's uncertain, but she'd given him the okay yesterday.

“He, um. He has Asperger’s syndrome. He's very exacting, very direct. And, honestly, while a delightful, wonderful young man, his mannerisms can a bit… taxing.” God, she always feels so terrible for saying that, for even thinking it.

“Okay,” Bernie says beside her, bringing her back to her senses.

“O… okay. That's all?” she asks, annoyed for reasons she's not quite sure of. Maybe it's the ease with which Bernie says it.

Bernie narrows her eyes, frowning down at her. “What more do you want me say?” she asks, voice surprisingly sincere. “I understand? I promise to treat him with the same respect I would any of the people, even creatures, under your care?” She gestures to Charlie at the last, tone shifting towards exasperation. After a moment of awkward silence, she sighs, meeting Serena's gaze with obvious hurt in her eyes. Then, before Serena can react, she turns on her heel to leave the lab. “I look forward to meeting him,” she calls over her shoulder, voice strained.

Serena can't quite summon up an apology before Bernie is gone, Charlie keening in her wake.

*****

When Charlie Junior tumbles unceremoniously and with very little forewarning out onto the stone surface in Charlie's enclosure, it is by all appearances healthy, and both terribly ugly and gut-wrenchingly adorable in that way that newborn animals of all stripes have. Serena is relieved, and an echo of that relief absolutely radiates off of Charlie too, even as Serena examines the small wound left from the process. 

It's Bernie who suggests the name Deuce. When questioned, she merely shrugs. “I'm a fair hand at poker,” she says with a wink.

Serena knows better, but for a brief moment she's certain her heart stops.

It's Jason who brings her back with a knowing grin. “I see!” he declares, wagging a finger briefly at Bernie. “Deuce: in poker terms, ‘two.’ Charlie's offspring is the second of its kind in the Sanctuary. That's very clever.”

Bernie only grins back, and Serena's heart flips again.

“Deuce it is.”

Bernie and Serena have not spoken about their conversation in the lab - have merely settled back into an only slightly stained companionship. Serena promises herself she will apologize at the next opportunity. It's only right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware of the phrase ‘what the deuce,’ and almost had Jason bring it up. Maybe it'll be a joke later. Isn't language fun? Deuce for two from the italic languages, Deuce for devil from German… ah yes, linguistics!


	5. Chapter 5

“Jason, this is Major Bernie Wolfe. Bernie, this is my nephew, Jason.”

“It's very nice to meet you, Jason.”

“You're the Lotus Defense Corps liaison,” Jason observes as he shakes Bernie's hand absently. He squints, bends forward a bit. “Do you hate abnormals, Major Bernie?”

A mirthless smile twitches at the edge of Bernie's lips. “No, I don't,” she replies in earnest. “In fact, I fail to see how they're much different than normal people.”

“Many of them are quite different,” Jason reasons. “That's why they live here.”

“Well, yes, evolution made them different, but they still have things and people they like and don't like. They have opinions, and… and dreams for the future.” Bernie is obviously struggling when she says this, but not for lack of passion. Serena believes her; she's just having trouble finding all the right words. Finally, she gestures vaguely with her hands. “They have more in common with us than not, don't you think?”

“I think I understand,” Jason says with a nod. He then straightens up again and smiles, and that's the last of it. “Do you enjoy Doctor Who?”

That's how it starts: with a question that honestly makes Serena sigh internally. But although Bernie falters at first, taken off guard the rapid change of tack, she is animated. It's impossible to say if she's humoring him on some subjects, or if she's genuinely interested, but they hit it off immediately either way.

Through this, Serena learns quite a lot about the ex-army medic. Bernie enjoys quiz shows, but is objectively terrible at most of the popular culture bits; neither she nor Jason can resist shouting answers at the telly. She rather likes River Song, but doesn't really have a favorite Doctor; she'd love to see a female Doctor though. She is appropriately awed in all the right places during reruns of World's Strongest Man.

It's when Jason first suggests Bernie join him playing video games that she finally makes a point to correct him. “Now Jason, Bernie is here to work, not to play video games and marathon Doctor Who with you,” she chides.

“Major Bernie is a liaison, Auntie Serena,” Jason says blandly. “That means it's her job to get to know us so as to facilitate better communication between the Sanctuary and the LDC. We are getting to know each other quite well.”

Serena parts her lips to speak again and meets Bernie's eyes. Bernie takes the words right out of her mouth.

“Well you can't argue with that,” the blonde says with a slight shrug, lips pulling into a brief, good-humoured grin.

Serena arches an eyebrow at her, then sighs. Sure, is an absurd technicality, but she's forced to agree. Not that she could possibly bring herself to argue, given Bernie is open to the idea. Maybe not thrilled, but she doesn't seem to mind either. Serena feels her face relax into a momentary smile.

And then realizes that she hasn't quite broken eye contact with Bernie yet. She clears her throat, cutting her eyes back to Jason, and gives him a stern look. “Fine. One hour.”

Bernie adapts quickly enough to the video game controller that within a few days she is recruited as Jason's co-op buddy when Finn isn't around or only wants to play classic first-person shooters - a class of game they find neither Jason nor Bernie is fond of, each for their own reasons. At this point, there is no arguing with it; Bernie merely complies or politely declines when Jason invites her to whatever activity he has in mind, and Serena is pleasantly surprised by their easy cooperation and communication.

Soon, Bernie is staying later than usual, joining them for whatever TV programme Jason had elected to watch that night. If she isn't interested in the latest documentary, she makes a much better show of it than Serena.

“Are you ready?” Jason asks one night from his perch in an armchair. A much-anticipated documentary on birds of prey starts at seven, he's pointed out several times throughout the week. “Two minutes and thirty-two seconds until it starts!”

Serena arches a brow at Bernie, and Bernie starts to grin. Then, suddenly, a look of realization crosses her face. “Oh… Jason, I've just remembered. I've got a video call with Dr. Magnus, I'm so sorry.”

Frowning, Serena follows Bernie out into the hallway. “I'm sorry.” She isn't. “You have a call with Helen?”

Bernie's brows are furrowed when she glances at her. “Yes?”

Serena follows on her heels as Bernie makes for the main lab, any thought of Jason and his documentary banished. She'll have to apologize later. “About?”

“It's just our regular weekly, Serena, why - ?”

“Weekly!?” Serena practically sputters with indignation. She can't remember the last time she could guarantee a regular chat with Helen outside of Network-wide conference calls. This wasn't so bad before, when things were normal, but for months now Sanctuaries have been shutting their doors one-by-one without explanation while a veritable political hurricane goes on around them. Helen is becoming harder and harder to pin down even as a friend, and Serena's sure sometimes that the whole Network could go up in flames without its Head even noticing.

“I, well, sometimes it's more frequent, but yes,” Bernie replies, clearly distracted enough to completely miss Serena's meaning. That, or she's really that bad at reading a room.

“ _Stop._ Major Wolfe, do you mean to tell me that you're in contact with Helen Magnus every few days?”

Bernie does stop, stares at her uncertainly. Most probably, it's because Serena hasn't called her ‘Major Wolfe’ in weeks. “Yes?” Bernie asks rather than says, obviously confused. Serena can practically feel herself snarling. “I thought you knew?”

Serena almost, almost laughs. “Thought I knew? God, of course not. I'm surprised I even knew to expect you on my doorstep given how difficult it is to get in touch with the woman anymore.”

“Okay,” Bernie says. “Okay, I'm sorry. I really did think you knew.”

“What are you even - ? What are you looking for, Major?” she amends, distracted by the other woman's frantic rustling.

“My laptop.”

“It's in my office, remember?” Serena sighs, throws her hands out to the side as Bernie grumbles something under her breath and makes for one of the lab computers. “ _How_ didn't I know about this, and… and how do you have access to my computer system?”

Bernie stiffens at the second question as if she's been caught out, and instead of reaching for the mouse, draws her hand back. “Helen had Jason set an account up,” she says quietly, carefully. “Which I assume you also didn't know.” Serena fumes silently at the revelation, and Bernie won't quite meet her eye. Serena can't help but feel somewhat vindicated. “We usually meet in the morning. Before I ever come in. Five, sometimes six. Something came up last night so she cancelled the call, pushed it back to her late morning.”

A noise suddenly comes from the computer, the odd little repeated blip indicating an incoming call. At first, Serena feels a fresh wave of annoyance wash over her at the persistent sound that she knows without having to look is Helen calling in. Then, suddenly, she snorts. “She's monitoring your access,” Serena observes.

“Of course she is,” Bernie replies, and Serena is caught off-guard by the steel in her voice. “I technically still work for the LDC.” Her voice then takes a turn for the venomous. “Or had you forgotten?” Serena freezes, stares. Bernie turns her head to meet Serena's gaze, and Serena can't begin to interpret the look in her eyes. “Can I take this, if we're done arguing about it?”

Serena feels bile rise in her own gut at the question. “Certainly,” she growls. “Don't let me keep you.”

*****

The next day, of all days, Helen calls for a conference for all House Heads. There is no sign of their UN liaison, Dr. Lee, but their banker, Richard Feliz, is present on-screen.

“The Lagos and Monrovia houses are now closed,” Helen says, coming around to the point of the call rather quickly. “Tomas and Yusuf are en route to you now, Pili. I expect having additional hands around will be particularly useful to you. As former Heads of House they are to be included in all Sanctuary business. And I assure you they're both content to follow your lead.”

“I'm sorry, Doctor, but I have to ask… why? This comes to five.” The Cairo Head of House is typically among the last to question Helen's decisions, so Serena is surprised that she's the one to speak up. Then again, she's one of the Executive Committee, and unless Serena has been removed without her knowledge, this hadn't passed through the Committee's hands at all.

The group has overruled Helen before. Serena can practically smell the uprising.

Helen merely ignores Pili’s question. “Are there any other pressing concerns?”

A rumble of voices swells from the monitors, but Serena speaks up above them. “Yes, actually. We have yet to address the fact that Lotus is in my house.”

“We have addressed Major Wolfe's presence in London, Dr. Campbell, and the topic is - ”

“Yes, but we haven't discussed how prettily she sits in your pocket, have we?” Serena spits, aware that the words incite another murmur from the other nine faces on screen. “I'm beginning to think the LDC knows more than this council!”

Serena feels exactly no remorse for the hard look Helen returns, nor for the sudden cacophony of conversation.

“Thank you, everyone. You're dismissed.”

One square, then another and another, go dark on her screens until only Helen and Serena remain on the call. Helen's jaw is tense, fire in her gunmetal blue eyes, but Serena barrels on despite the warning look.

“ _Well_?”

“Serena, this is beyond - ”

“She speaks to you regularly, but the rest of us can barely get a word in. You're supposed to be a leader among peers, not - ”

“Your ego is _not_ my concern,” Helen almost, almost shouts, proverbial hackles raised.

Serena states at her for a moment, shocked, and then laughs bitterly. “My ego!?” she demands, gesturing at the cluster of monitors used for her conference calls. Although Helen cannot see them, Serena knows she has a similar setup and will take her meaning. “When did Yusuf and Tomas know you were closing their doors? Did you make arrangements with them in secret or spring it on them at the last moment? How long before the LDC comes crashing through my front door?”

“If the information Major Wolfe feeds them continues to satisfy, hopefully never.” At this, Serena gapes, staring openly at the screen for a long moment. “Serena, surely you realized she was playing the field. But she's playing in our favor now. What matters is coordinating the information she passes along.”

Serena breathes. Inhales, exhales, drags herself to full height. Does her best to compose herself. “She is in my house, Helen.”

“And you have no concept what's coming. So please, Serena, as my friend and council, trust me. And try to trust her.”

The connection ends before Serena has a chance to respond.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reminder that this takes place in 2011, in reference to some dialogue that occurs (specifically referencing the war in Afghanistan).

The surface is a powder keg. They are teetering on the edge of something they cannot come back from, and Serena knows Helen, knows that she still doesn't think the world is ready. Agrees that it probably isn't: the existence of abnormals is simply too much.

With the Sanctuary Network no longer in the government's pocket, the United States has created SCIU. To their credit, they've been doing an excellent job of keeping things quiet on the western front - though with their methods, Serena would rather the world knew the truth. Truth be told, Serena is hard pressed to imagine how the whole world doesn't know yet. She supposes anything can be kept secret if someone's desperate enough to keep it that way, and the Sanctuary has done its share of legwork on the matter too.

But another Sanctuary has closed, leaving seven with open doors, and she finds herself wondering frequently now how long before it all goes to hell.

The strangest part is that none of it seems to faze Helen, who hasn't made any efforts to communicate with Serena since the last conference call. She doesn't even announce the closure, just lets it happen. Serena understands that Old City is on the front lines of all of this, but honestly…

And then there's Finn, who she's beginning to think has been too-well awakened to the state of the world. For even though Bernie's relationship with Serena has been tense for the past fortnight or so, the Major has kept up with Finn rather spectacularly.

“I want go to Old City,” he says, for the third time in as many days. She and Bernie are in the lab, sitting across from each other and making a valiant attempt at ignoring each other.

“Absolutely not,” Serena responds, not even bothering to look at him.

He huffs out a breath. “Why not?”

“We've been through this, Mr. Wieme.”

“The abnormals are building a homeland there, Doc, I could help.”

“Yes, Finn, the abnormals there are building a home in plain sight and the United States government has developed an abnormal-hunting unit that is currently, with the cooperation of the Canadian government, salivating on the Sanctuary's doorstep. Old City is a warzone and nobody is going there without Helen Magnus’ express permission. And good luck getting through to her; the only people she's interested in talking to are the dogs on _my_ doorstep.”

At the end of her tangent, Serena glances up, meeting Bernie's eyes from across the room with her best sneer. She watches the emotions cycle across Bernie's face. First she looks startled, then hurt, then angry.

“That's not fair.”

“It's only unfair if it's not true.”

“Serena…” Bernie flounders, the pained look furrowing her brows again.

“Major Bernie, tell her I should go,” Finn pleads, with the single-minded stubbornness of youth, mindlessly interrupting the coming argument.

“Oh, I don't think so,” Bernie replies with a tight smile. Finn’s plea might have distracted her, but Serena continues to watch Bernie's face.

“Why not? You said that when I see a way to change something for the better I should do it!”

“I - ” Bernie cuts herself off, evidently aware that correcting a misrepresentation of her words is of no use. “That doesn't mean walking unnecessarily into danger, Finn!” she exclaims with a frown. “Part of that's knowing _where and when_ you're needed. Old City has Dr. Magnus, and Dr. Zimmerman. And Henry, and Kate, and - god, _Nikola Tesla_!”

Finn clenches a fist, then unclenches it again. “So you're saying I'm not needed - that I'm, what, useless?”

Bernie looks like she'd rather be having literally any other conversation. “That's not what I'm saying, Finn, I just think - ”

“I'll find my own way there.”

Serena arches an eyebrow. “How, Finn? Jump on a public airline? With what money?”

“I don't know, but - ”

“ _Drop it_ , Finn,” Serena commands suddenly, tiring quickly of the argument.

Finn withers under her glare. They stare at each other, and Finn looks like a fish out of water, trying to find the words plead his case. Finally he turns away, leaving the room in a huff.

Serena's glare flicks back to Bernie, but the Major is looking after Finn absently with the same pained look lining her brow. Serena sighs, suddenly feeling exhausted.

A span of silence passes, long and stifling, before Bernie speaks.

“Do you know how I became involved with Lotus?”

“Don't care.” This is not entirely true. Okay, it’s not true at all. Serena’s curious, of course, but Bernie doesn't need to know that. Doesn't need to know Serena cares a single flying - 

“Do you know why I left the military?”

The new question makes Serena slap a pen down on the desk in annoyance. “What does it matter, Major?”

One thing she's learned about Bernie in their time together is that she's not much for conversation. The brief insight into her history while watching Charlie had been quite the one-off, especially since it had been about herself. Berenice Wolfe does not talk about her life, and can barely hold a conversation about anything else unless pressed. Even at their best, when evenings had been spent in the media room with Jason on the sofa and days stretched out in companionable silence, shoulder to shoulder in the lab - hell, even the few times Bernie had accompanied them into the field - she had not used many words.

This makes it all the more shocking when Bernie plows on despite Serena's assertions that she doesn't want to hear any of it.

“Roadside IED. Didn't see it in time. Flipped our vehicle and I came ’round upside down in a poppy field. Came back to London on a backboard with a c5-c6 spinal fracture and a pseudoaneurysm in my right ventricle.” She pauses for a moment, meeting Serena's eyes. Hers are dark, narrowed, her lips drawn tight. Serena frowns back.

“Lotus approached me while I was recovering. I suppose having one of the world's leading front-line trauma surgeons in their pocket was something they couldn't pass up.” A trace of dark humour passes across her face for a moment. “They courted me for the organisation. One thing I'll say for them: they know how to play their cards. My contract with the army was almost up, but I'd been offered a full commission. Ten more years. I wanted to take it. I loved my work, my comrades, saving lives every day.” She pauses, hesitant, then shrugs one shoulder. “My worst fear was that I'd wake up paralyzed.”

She doesn't say as much, but Serena recognizes this as a confession. Perhaps she doesn't like the idea of being afraid, or maybe she thinks it's silly be afraid of paralysis when the alternative is death; Serena has no way of knowing. But when Bernie pushes out of her chair to pace across the room, Serena instinctively wants to follow, caregiver in her be damned.

She keeps her own seat, but only just.

“I assume they might have held family or friends against me if I had any to threaten. But maybe not, I don't know. It was all quite civil. But it was… hinted… that if I didn't come to work for them, a dishonorable discharge and a revocation of my license could be arranged.”

Serena watches Bernie lean against the wall, watches her slide down it. Swallows. “Damn it, Campbell,” she grumbles to herself as she stands, not loud enough for Bernie to hear.

At the movement, Bernie glances up. She tracks Serena's path with curiosity, and Serena only arches a brow at her as she crosses the space between them and lowers herself carefully to the floor, shoulder to shoulder with Bernie. She tries to ignore the fact that Bernie is staring at her, but it's becoming increasingly hard to do.

“So. They learned your reputation and played you like a fiddle,” Serena observes, leaning her head back against the wall and looking somewhere ahead of them.

“I guess you could say that,” Bernie replies with a shrug. She buffs her knee absently with her palm, and Serena hears her exhale through her nose, long and slow. “The army's all I know. The organization was militaristic, so I already knew the rules, to an extent; honestly I couldn't think of an alternative. Besides, they, um. They said something that terrified me, and… and at the same time made me want to, I don't know, tear them apart from the inside out. They, um… they never said 'abnormals,’ just ‘monsters.’ But it wasn't the word, it was - it was the way they said it.”

At this, Serena glances at her, but remains silent, watching Bernie's face contort with thinly veiled emotion.

“They said ‘monsters,’ and um… I… heard ‘al-Qaeda’… Not… in the sense that it refers to a radical, terrorist organization, but… People, even some of my comrades, say it and they mean… well, they don't mean a concrete, defined group - they think they do, but they mean this idea, where everyone is a potential threat based on religion or skin colour. It's… the way they use it out of fear and hatred for anyone who doesn't look and act like them, anyone different. I heard that fear, I… I heard ‘monster,’ and I heard ‘Them,’ and ‘Other,’ and I - I heard me.” Bernie swallows hard, then lowers her face into her palms.

Serena arches a brow, frowning deeply. “You?”

Bernie shrugs, but keeps her face hidden. “It's nothing.”

Sighing quietly, Serena rotates sideways to better look at the other woman. “I'm listening,” she murmurs, pressing her fingertips against Bernie's knuckles. She keeps her expression as open as possible, her voice as gentle as she can. Tries not to sound expectant. When Bernie lowers her hands and glances at her, mouth drawn thin, Serena smiles her warmest smile. “Can't imagine it's any worse than being with the LDC,” she adds in a bantering tone.

Bernie breathes a quiet laugh. Shrugs one shoulder. “I, uhm…”

“You don't have to say. But… well, our motto is ‘Sanctuary for All,’ after all. That applies to abnormals and humans alike.”

Bernie's hands are on her knees now, and Serena covers one of them with her own as Bernie manages another hard swallow.

“It's, uhm. Just. Growing up. Well, there was, um, always this stigma - still is, I guess - about same-sex attraction, and...”

She trails off, and Serena watches her levelly for a moment. When Bernie doesn't speak again, she raises both brows. “You're a lesbian?” Serena asks. Watches the slight flush rise in Bernie's cheeks. “Is that all?” Bernie tenses a little, and she mentally kicks herself for the failed attempt at humour. “No, no, I'm sorry, I don't mean that quite so lightly. I shouldn't...” She trails off, embarrassed and a bit ashamed. “It's not right to joke, that... trivializes your experience and I I- I know it's been a hard road,” she adds, squeezing Bernie's fingers gently before withdrawing her hand. “You won't find any judgment between these walls, though.”

They sit in silence for a span before Bernie parts her lips to speak. She hesitates, then blows out a long breath. “It's okay,” she says quietly, shifting. She pauses, then adds: “I've never just told anyone that. I, I've dated, but…”

“How old were you in ‘92?”

Bernie looks at her like a deer in the headlights. “Twenty-seven.”

It just registers in Serena's periphery that Bernie has curled her fingers, and that they're now effectively holding hands.

“You didn't have to think about that very long, so it must have been important to you,” Serena says. It's admittedly baiting, but she wants to hear Bernie say these things, not make the conclusions herself.

Bernie musters a breathy, mirthless laugh. “Declassification of same-sex attraction as a mental illness? Of course that was an important time. God, ‘88!”

“Section 28,” Serena says after a moment of thought.

“Stonewall.”

“Sir Ian McKellen.”

They both laugh, though Serena isn't quite sure why. The moment of laughter fades into a pregnant silence.

“And I bet you'd already married your husband.”

Bernie swallows, nods. Serena squeezes her fingers again.

“When did that end?”

Exhaling another laugh, Bernie shrugs. “About the same time the military became as much of a reality for him as it was for me. Don't - don't get me wrong, he was a good man, but… he wanted a family, a - a standing partnership. I'm sure we could have both worked in a hospital, but… actually leaving was too much for him. He tried, for a while, but in the end…” Bernie trails off with a shrug.

“I was wrong about you,” Serena says suddenly, breaking the would-be silence. “And… that's quite difficult for me to admit.” She turns her face again, eyeing the downward turn of Bernie's mouth with a frown. “You are… possibly one of the bravest, most fantastic women I have ever met, and I am… so sorry to have treated you any differently.”

She means every word.

Bernie is staring, but the stricken look is gone from her eyes. Serena meets her gaze, uncertain. “Can you forgive me?”

Bernie's lips tug upward in a barren glimmer of a smile. She looks like she wants to say something, and then she doesn't, and then her eyes are cast downward towards Serena's mouth and Serena realizes she's been doing the same thing, watching Bernie's lips.

And then Bernie surges forward and they're kissing.

Oh god. Oh god, they're _kissing_.

Should she have expected this? Maybe? No? No, yes. Definitely yes. Or, well, maybe she should have expected herself to cave and kiss Bernie, because suddenly she knows with a terrifying sort of clarity that she is… more than fond of her. Which is funny, because she's kissed exactly two women in the past, and one doesn't count because it was Helen Magnus and it had been a very casual occurrence between very good friends (never mind the six orgasms that followed). She's never really considered herself anything other than straight, but maybe she never really considered herself straight either? Honestly right now she barely knows what day it is because Bernie's mouth is so soft and her lips are just a little dry and taste a bit like unflavoured lip balm, which is startling because it's actually quite lovely. And Bernie's hand is on her arm, gentle but sure, and Bernie makes a small noise of pleasure (or hell, maybe it's Serena who makes the noise - she's not even sure when their fingers became wound so tightly together), and that's what brings her back to the present for just a moment.

Serena draws back, a little breathless, and is struck by how alone she feels when Bernie pulls away too, brown eyes locked on Serena's. There's concern there, something Serena has not seen before. The prelude to an apology?

But Serena doesn't want an apology. Helen's as good as abandoned them, and the Sanctuary Network is in the most dangerous place she's ever seen it in, and she's beginning to wonder if anyone in her care is safe, and all she wants is to kiss Bernie again, because Bernie is soft and warm, and all strength and light at the same time and she wants that, she wants all of it.

So she does. More fiercely, more desperately, than the first kiss. She grasps at Bernie's arm, wanting to touch but unsure where to put her free hand. Bernie's fingers curl with surety behind her neck, steadying her, guiding her.

It's the most extravagant sort of catharsis.

By the time they break apart, she's not sure her lungs are functioning at anything close to normal capacity anymore. Her pulse is pounding in her ears, and she can't keep her eyes off of Bernie’s mouth. Her lips are swollen and parted, and she's panting a little. Serena imagines the state of her own mouth.

For some reason, that's what makes her remember who and where they are and precisely what they're doing.

“I, um. I have a - a conference call. Executive Committee,” she says suddenly, eyes flicking up to meet Bernie's as she unwinds their fingers. “Oh, and it's feeding time. Your turn, I think.”

“It's, um… is not my turn.”

“Right, well. If you don't mind, just…” Either forty-six is too old for all this snogging on a cold stone floor business, or Serena needs to hit the gym. She manages to stand without too much embarrassment and immediately makes for the door. “Terribly sorry. But. Well. Important business and all that.”

“Of course,” she hears Bernie say behind her, a question in her voice.

She avoids her for the rest of the day.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to matildaswan for being such a lovely beta!

Serena finds herself suddenly enamoured with Bernie's mouth.

It's not really something she's thought about before. She's become fond of Bernie, certainly, albeit begrudgingly so, but she hasn't really thought of Bernie as anything beyond that. Until she sat shoulder to shoulder with the woman and watched her lips curl into the smallest of smiles while considering all the things she'd had wrong for so long. She'd wanted to kiss her then, and, as if reading Serena's mind, Bernie had acted, had kissed her, with all that vigour and care and warmth.

And so, all through the conference call with the remainder of the Executive Committee (minus Helen Magnus), all night and the next morning, all Serena can think about - with an almost blindingly distracting tenacity - is that kiss.

The whole situation is a bit absurd, really. And not on a personal level. Sure, it's an odd feeling, after a lifetime of relationships with men (some better and longer than others), wanting to be with a woman (and she does want to be with Bernie, she realizes, in every way she can imagine), but… well, she really can't afford to fall in love (love!) with a member of the LDC, can she? And Bernie certainly can't afford it.

No. Becoming too close is quite simply not an option for them. Absolutely not. Not in a hundred lifetimes. Bernie is with Lotus, Serena is House Head of the UK Sanctuary, and they cannot be more than friendly.

Friendly. Ha! She's barely given Bernie that, and suddenly, like the flip of a switch…

“Pull yourself together, Campbell,” she catches herself muttering as her heart leaps into her throat when Bernie appears on the security feed on a nearby monitor. She's really going to have to do something about this.

The problem is, now that she’s had time to parse her emotions into something more or less definable, it's made her realize that she may indeed be arse over tits in love with Berenice Wolfe. She had not thought of it that way before but she's not blind to her own emotions, however obsessively she might cache them away. Bernie has proven herself to be an enigma, but Serena's come to believe the woman has the Sanctuary's best interests at heart after all.

And she's fond of her - god is she fond of Bernie Wolfe. She reckons it started to creep in when they treated Finn's wing together, when she talked about the boy they saved. Grew as Bernie took up every chore assigned to her, from feedings (going so far as to stay for the 2am feeding on a few occasions) to cleaning habitats to medical examinations (Serena walking her through every step, every piece of Abnormal anatomy present) to looking after Charlie, never once complaining. Grew even as she griped to Jason one day that she honestly wasn't sure Bernie Wolfe even owned a hair brush - which she thinks now was a very odd thing to do unless she admits her attraction (why else would she pay so much attention to that uneven fringe, the unruly curls; why else would she wonder if the curls were natural and what it would be like to touch them?). Exploded into a sort of wonderful, warm ache as Bernie spent more and more time with Jason - without question, the most important person in her life - and as Jason's affection for Bernie grew in return.

Yes, yes she is most definitely fond - more than fond - of Major Berenice Wolfe, ex-RAMC, Lotus Defense Corps liaison. She is fond of her smiles and the way she chats so candidly with Jason and her willing and eager participation in Sanctuary life. The woman makes her want to pull her hair out sometimes, but she is so very, very fond of Bernie, and Serena is beginning to wonder what it would be like kiss her again, under different circumstances, what it would be like to -

“Morning.”

Bernie's voice jolts Serena out of her thoughts. Serena whips around, caught off her guard by the tousled head of blonde hair stuck through the doorway.

Bernie blinks, noticing Serena's shock, for all that Serena thinks she'd done a rather good job of hiding it. 

“Uh, sorry. Didn't mean to startle you,” Bernie adds as she straightens up and moves into the office, lips practically vanishing into a thin line.

“Oh, don't worry about it,” Serena brushes her off, toying with an earring as she watches Bernie move across the floor to stand behind a chair across from Serena's at the desk.

“How was the, um, the conference call?”

“The… ah. Jury's still out,” Serena says with a shake of her head. “Magnus is in Bolivia. We'll approach her as a committee in a week or so.”

“No explanation?”

“Ahh, officially the smaller Sanctuaries are closing and merging to save money, but she's being too cryptic. And abnormals are disappearing en route to their new homes. Nobody has any answers to that yet, despite our best efforts. All in all, it's a proper mess.” 

Although Serena is concerned, she suspects there's something more happening here, something deeper and much complex at work. She just can't quite put her finger on what it is just yet.

Bernie seems appropriately shocked. Serena watches as she sinks into the chair, puffing out a breath. “Wow.”

“Yes, _wow_ ,” Serena mutters, eyes casting over the slump in Bernie's back, the furrow of her brow beneath the errant blonde fringe.

They sit in silence for a few moments, before Bernie looks like she wants to speak. Serena beats her to the punch. 

“Listen, the, um, the pteranodon, she hasn't really been the same since the whole Big Bertha debacle, and - ”

“I'm sorry, Big Bertha?”

“Oh… right, I forget you're still quite new... D’you remember the tidal wave off the west coast of India a little over a year ago, the one nobody could explain?”

“Of course; it did a lot of damage in Mumbai in particular, didn't it?”

Serena nods.

“Well, that was Big Bertha. There were two more waves - that's kept a bit more hush-hush.” She pauses for a moment. “Well, four, if you count the counter-waves,” she adds absently. “It's.. a lot of very mystical, woo-woo sky fairy mumbo-jumbo that Dr. Zimmerman would have to tell you more about.” Serena waves her hand dismissively. She's not sure how much of Will Zimmerman's story she believes, honestly. “Anyway, something happened before that, a magnetic burst of some kind, that set abnormals off all over the globe. Suki - the giant lizard creature in Japan - escaped and caused a scene, and a sand ray inexplicably surfaced and died outside Cairo, and, of course, Poppy here - ”

“I still can't believe you named your dinosaur Poppy,” Bernie interjects, mirth sparkling in her eyes.

“First of all, she's a flying lizard - pterosaurs were never dinosaurs - and second, Dr. Watson named her, _not_ me,” Serena say, voice clipped and prim. “Though I find it a perfectly acceptable name,” Serena adds, more flippantly.

Bernie scoffs playfully. “Half the dogs, cats, and daughters in England are named Poppy. You have a seven-foot-tall, carnivorous flying lizard taking up half the building with the same name and you don't find that even a little ironic?”

“Oh, she's practically a kitten as it is,” Serena retorts. A beat. “Well, she was. Now she's had a taste of clear blue skies soaring over Westminster,” she says regretfully, gesturing broadly in a general skyward direction with one hand. “Now she always wants out. Shame she can't be free.” It's true, the pterosaur’s enclosure _does_ take up as good as half the Sanctuary. While London is the best equipped for her, with its tall, squarish build, she'd still like to see the resources for something bigger and better, dedicated just to her.

Honestly, doesn't Helen own any secluded little islands?

“So, um… what's wrong with her?” Bernie asks after a span. The look on her face tells Serena the silence has stretched on longer than she realized.

“Ah. Right. Concussion.”

Bernie can't quite hold back the snort of laughter.

“Oi, trauma surgeon. Anything with a soft brain in a hard skull can get a concussion.”

“Yes, yes, it's just,” Bernie replies, barely suppressing a chuckle. “Imagining a dinosaur with a concussion is almost as amusing as it is terrifying,” She swipes a finger across her eye to clear the wetness there before catching Serena's expression. “Oh fine, pterosaur. They're all just overgrown lizards. Besides, you wouldn't be sitting here waiting for me if you thought it were anything major.”

Serena purses her lips, one eyebrow rising ever higher as she contemplates her response. 

“Actually, mainstream science is finally coming to terms with the fact that many dinosaurs were feathered… so a bit more like overgrown chickens really,” Serena says in a perfect deadpan.

With that, Bernie dissolves into the most absurd, honking, infectious laugh Serena has ever heard, the kind of laugh that draws the rest of the room in as well. Serena finds herself giggling too - sort of maybe laughing at Bernie (and her laugh) - but in truth, along with her. There's so much wild abandon in the sound, in the emotion behind it, that Serena can't help but laugh along, mirth swelling in her belly and bubbling up her throat.

They laugh for what feels like a very long time, and Serena too finds herself clearing tears from her eyes. She gasps breathlessly, which causes Bernie to emit another honk of laughter; Bernie guffaws helplessly, and Serena bends double in her seat, trying but failing to stifle another bout of laughter which comes out as something of a helpless wail. As they feed off of each other, laughing and laughing and laughing, Serena feels the best she's felt in months, all of the stress of current events dissipating in the wake of raucous laughter. 

Finally, she catches movement outside of the door in her peripheral vision, and Serena turns her head a little to spy Jason peering confusedly into the office.

“Weren't going to examine Poppy this morning?” he inquires pointedly when he realizes he's caught Serena's attention.

Serena eventually clears her throat, hears Bernie hiccough as she swallows down a laugh.

“I, um. Hm. Yes, yes, you're exactly right. Bernie and I were just - ”

Jason cuts in before she can finish, ever direct. “You're moving quite slowly, aren't you? I think you should be more concerned about a pterosaur with a potential head injury.”

“You know what, Jason?” Bernie musters, finally bringing her own laughter under control, “You're exactly right.” And she gets resolutely to feet, rapping twice at the top of the desk with her knuckles. “Let's take care of your pussycat.”

Oh. _Oh no._

Bernie spins around at the door, and Serena catches her eye belatedly. She's glued to her seat, trying to determine if Bernie is aware of precisely what she'd said. Now she decides that the statement was never meant as suggestion, but damned if - 

“Are you coming or not?” Bernie asks, bemused.

“Of course. Of course, I - right behind you.”

*****

“Alright, give it another five minutes and we'll be ready,” Serena murmurs, watching as the oversized reptile flutters her wings in agitation, energy flagging under the slow-working, mild anaesthetic. 

Her shoulder just touches Bernie's, and admittedly, it's a little hard to concentrate. Something about the contact is electrifying. She realizes now that the same feeling has been there for some time, an uncertain thrill at touching Bernie, brushing arms or laying a hand on her shoulder in passing. Only now does she understand her own attraction. 

“Took a few times to get her regular dose right,” she remarks, mostly as a distraction for herself. “Enough of a delay that she doesn't injure herself, but quick enough to put her under. Obviously we don't want her totally sedated now...”

“Bet you've never had to figure a dose for that many kilos before or since,” Bernie banters in that warm, soft, casual tone she has, the corner of her mouth lifting as she leans a little to the side, effectively nudging Serena's arm.

A few weeks ago, Serena might have scoffed at the assertion. Now, she merely shrugs one shoulder slightly. “No, no, actually,” she corrects in a much more amenable tone. “She weighs almost nothing, actually, considering her size. Hollow bones and all. The fear was more that we'd overdose her.”

“Right.”

Bernie's tone is thoughtful, and Serena turns to glance at her. She's watching Poppy with interest as the creature moves agitatedly around the small room off the side of her enclosure. Their eyes catch momentarily, a curious gleam in Bernie's, and Serena quickly turns back to the pterosaur, watching as the creature finally slumps to the ground - not unconscious, but obviously drowsy and losing the will to fight the drug.

“Well. That's that,” she says, glad of the distraction. Bernie's eyes are far too soft, her mouth too inviting. “Shall we?”

“Lead the way, fräulein.”

Serena blinks, stops mid-stride, and turns. She means to question Bernie, but when she catches her eye again the blonde is smirking so deliciously Serena simply arches a brow. If Bernie's going to flirt - or whatever it is she's doing, catching her off-guard like this - the least Serena can do is return the favor.

“Danke,” she purrs. 

Bernie hums quietly behind her before softly answering--“Bitte”--in a tone that sends a chill down Serena's spine.

“No sudden movements,” she manages to say in a level tone as they come to the heavy plate door. “She should be relatively docile, but if she's injured, who knows.”

“If this is your way of trying get rid of me…” Bernie begins in a tone Serena recognizes as bantering.

Serena rolls her eyes, keys in the unlock code. “Please, I'd have done it already.”

“Oh really?” It reads as a challenge, though Bernie knows full well there are at least a few creatures here who could make quick work of her.

“Definitely. Those beetles we keep in the SHU have a particular taste for human flesh.”

“And you _keep_ them?”

Serena snorts, grinning at Bernie's disbelief. “I'm kidding. They're leftovers from someone's very misguided political stunt a while back. Shipped across the pond for safekeeping. Typically harmless, but genetically modified to cause madness and eventual death in abnormal humans.” She frowns at that and arches a brow. “Which is actually far worse, I think.”

“Definitely,” Bernie mutters, but they leave it at that.

“Anyway, plenty of other ways I could have made your disappear if I'd wanted to cause you physical harm,” Serena manages in an airy tone. “Don't forget that.” As if she can stand the thought of not having Bernie here, now.

“Noted,” Bernie chirps with an appropriately demure look, but with a sparkle her eye. Serena bites back a sigh and has to force her eyes away.

They communicate well, Serena remembers with a pang as they maneuver their way around the sluggish but alert reptile. With barely a word they manage to position themselves at her side. Serena feels Bernie behind her, feels her sigh against her arm as they each reach out a hand to touch the smooth skin. Serena coos a bit, practiced as anyone could hope to be at being in the presence of the enormous creature, and is pleased to find Poppy quite calm.

Bernie is stroking the long neck when Poppy flicks a wing in agitation. “Careful,” Serena murmurs. “She might yet take your fingers off.” She finds herself concentrating very hard on not thinking about what Bernie's fingers could do, hale and whole.

Bernie isn't helping. “Are you kidding? I think she'd prefer the whole hand.”

The whole… _oh…_ oh god…

By the tone of Bernie's voice, she doesn't quite mean this the way Serena takes it, but it doesn't stop Serena from feeling herself flush a little. She clears her throat awkwardly. 

“Uh, yes. Quite right,” she replies. “Always been a greedy thing, so yes… yes probably.”

_Pull yourself together,_ she tells herself for the second time today. But that other, terribly powerful part of her wants to show Bernie just how greedy _Serena_ can be.

They're halfway through as complete an examination as anyone can manage on a barely sedated, 7-foot tall, carnivorous flying lizard (Serena figures they may as well use the time to their advantage), Bernie at Poppy's other side watching Serena smooth her hand thoughtfully down a wingjoint, when Bernie clears her throat. Serena arches a brow, alert to the awkward sound.

“So… about yesterday…”

Of course. Yesterday. The kiss. The thing she hasn't stopped thinking about. Still, she reaches for another topic. “Don’t worry, Major, your secrets are totally safe with me. ‘Sanctuary for All,’ dual obligations to the world and the beings within our walls, and all that.”

Bernie had confessed a lot that day. Her fears regarding her injury, her sexuality… And although she is posturing to avoid a topic, Serena means every word. She can be cold, but she is not cruel.

“Ah, yes, well,” Bernie begins, and Serena knows she hasn't deterred her from the conversation. “About...the other thing…”

“Right,” she says, forcing a breezy tone. “ _That._ ”

“It’s, umm…” Bernie looks staggered for a moment, then shrugs helplessly. “Sort of the elephant in the room, isn’t it?”

Serena takes just a moment to think over those words, and manages to laugh. “The proverbial one?”

“Not to be confused with the elephantine lizard in the room, of course,” Bernie concedes with a small smile.

Serena's heart swells. Bernie's smiles are endearing - small, like they're not something she's accustomed to giving willingly, but there are noticeable smile lines nevertheless, and the mirthful smiles fill her eyes well enough that the curve of her lips is just a bonus.

After a moment, Serena realizes she's gazing absently at the other woman. She turns her full attention back to Poppy, clears her throat and musters a casual tone. “What about it?”

Suddenly Bernie seems at a loss. “Well,” she begins, “things just… seem a little tense, and…”

If Serena's honest, she feels a bit bad for Bernie. She's not the sort of woman who talks openly about emotions, Serena knows. She feels almost guilty for putting Bernie on the spot - but really, she's a bit more inclined to keep up her own show of self control. 

“Oh, not tense at all. Goodness, no.” She hurries through the denial with a flick of her wrist. “I'll have you know you're not the first woman I've kissed. It's all quite old hat, actually.”

_Oi… oversharing much, Campbell?_ asks the small voice in her head.

When Serena chances a glance towards Bernie, the woman looks like something just smacked her between the eyes. “Oh… well, that's… good?”

“Well, you know. Nothing to worry about, anyway,” Serena replies with a too-casual shrug. “I think we're done here.” She lays a careful hand on Poppy's neck as she passes, stroking gently. There's no serious trauma, but they've determined that it's enough to warrant observation and having the creature lay low. “Sorry, dear, but you're going to be in here for a few days,” she murmurs, running her hands under Poppy's chin as the lizard clicks her long beak tiredly. “Next time, you might think twice before throwing yourself against the ceiling?” Serena imagines the next small clicking sound as an argument, and grunts as she scratches gently under the lizard's chin before beginning again in a tone she really would use for a house pet. “Yes, I know that helicopter wasn't supposed to be flying overhead, and rest assured Auntie Serena is going to thoroughly destroy whoever cleared that flight path, yes she is. But you could stand to be a little less excitable, you know.”

When she closes the security door behind her, Bernie has already disappeared from sight. Suddenly, she realizes that maybe she'd been too dismissive of the other woman's concerns. She takes off around the corner without a thought. “Bernie, wait.”

It's an impulse. A ridiculous, horrible impulse. Where's her sense of self-preservation when she needs it? Since when does Serena care how Bernie feels? She shouldn't care at all. But Serena's staring at Bernie as Bernie stares back, weight balanced mid-stride with her head turned to catch Serena's gaze. She looks like a deer in the headlamps. Spooked. Embarrassed?

Serena wrings her hands. “Look, I… I'm sorry, Bernie, I'm - ” Frustrated, Serena sighs. “Alright. Truth be told, I'm not… I mean, I haven't… I've never been more than friends with a woman before, and I'm… Well, you've terrified the life out of me.”

Bernie stands there a moment longer, and Serena can't quite read the look on her face. All she knows is that the silence, though brief, is much too long. She clears her throat and glances down at her hands.

“Right,” Bernie says slowly, carefully, as if Serena's shift in gaze is a cue. “So…” Serena glances up, and Bernie's expression is a little pained.

“Bernie?”

Suddenly, Bernie's expression breaks. She smiles, but this time, it's not endearing. It doesn't quite reach her eyes.

“Nevermind, just… Well, Jason recorded some documentary a couple of nights ago, and I promised to watch it with him today if there was time. D’you mind?”

Serena exhales, trying to be grateful for the distraction. She is, really, but, well, then again she isn't. She's already confessed she's afraid; there's not much more she can say to wear down her own armour.

“Sure. Of course. If he's not done reprogramming the security measures he was working on this morning, he should be soon. I'll just update Poppy's file and orders.”

“Right. Thanks.” Bernie stands there for a moment more, then turns on her heel.

“Ah, Bernie,” Serena interrupts again. She can't help but feel her heart flutter a little when Bernie immediately spins towards her again, errant curls flying out to the side and then falling haphazardly into her face. Honestly, this woman… Still, Serena finds herself pressing her lips into an almost shy smile. “I've, ah. I've got a nice bottle of Shiraz, if you'd care to share it later?”

Bernie sucks her lower lip in, favors it for a moment. Then her eyes do light up, and she nods briefly. “Okay.” She pauses for a moment, then her mouth twists into a more playful smile. “You should know, though, I'm more of a whiskey girl.”

“Mm… I might be able to help with that. But there's a roast on for tonight.”

Bernie makes an approving sound, then points in the same awkwardly playful manner at Serena as if she's just shared a ground-breaking idea. “Shiraz it is.”

*****

In actuality, it’s fish and chips night. Serena's roast has never quite made it into Jason's preferred menu schedule, and she's actually quite grateful for that. It makes far too much food for the few people in the Sanctuary who can actually eat it, and it's not exactly something she's in the mood for every week.

She _has_ rather perfected the recipe though. She's not an exceptional cook, but there are a handful of dishes she can whip up practically with her eyes closed that she considers restaurant quality, thanks very much. It's a good, bold, flavorful dish, with a perfect balance of vegetables and fat and moist, tender meat. And she'll admit without much coaxing that the recipe grew around the flavors of her very favorite Shiraz.

They're perfect together - and while Bernie admits later to her preference for white wines over reds, she is also incredibly complimentary.

For all that she's been around late relatively often, Bernie doesn't often eat with them. Serena suspects she feels like she's imposing. That hasn't been the case for a long while now, but it's taken cajoling to get Bernie to table with them nevertheless.

She's never seen the woman eat with the sort of gusto she uses to attack this particular dish, and takes it as a personal compliment that Bernie is deep into a second glass of wine, mopping up gravy with what may be her fifth or sixth chunk of crusty bread - far too many carbohydrates in one sitting to justify her lean figure, in Serena's humble opinion. Jason is eating his cod in the media room, they are into their second bottle of wine, and Serena is very close to being happy.

As the meal comes to a close, Serena clears her throat. She hates the idea of closing out their occasional idle banter, the easy companionship of the meal, but thinks this is worth it. So very worth it, if it goes her way. She wants Bernie to know that, yes, she's afraid, that this is unexplored territory, but that she's open to it, wants to explore. She smiles at Bernie's arched brows, feels the uncertain warmth in her own gaze. “Bernie, about earlier…”

Bernie's expression is suddenly a placid mask. She pushes her plate back, lips twitching slightly. “Right.”

“I just… I want you to know - ”

“It's fine. You don't have to say anything.” Serena blinks, watching Bernie thoughtfully for a moment as the other woman wipes her hands on her napkin, gathering her thoughts. “I, uhm. I value you, Serena, as a friend, and… And I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable; I never meant to, I - ”

“Think nothing of it,” Serena murmurs, trying to follow Bernie's thought process.

Bernie tilts her head sideways in a crooked sort of nod, lips drawn. “Anyway, I think maybe… maybe we should let it rest.”

Serena balks, covers her frown with an awkward sip of wine. “You want to forget it ever happened,” she musters after a hard swallow, trying valiantly to hide her disappointment.

“I… I think it might be for the best, yes.” She pauses for just a moment, then shrugs in what Serena thinks is something of a helpless gesture. “I kissed you because I wanted to, Serena, I… I didn't think.”

Serena manages to laugh a little at that, a quiet, self-deprecating laugh despite that her stomach flutters with the thought. “Neither did I.” She wonders for a brief moment if Bernie can sense her giddiness.

Either she doesn't, or she reads it as nerves.

“And besides, Lotus operative, dyed-in-the-wool heterosexual Sanctuary House Head,” she continues, gesturing between herself and Serena.

“Well, I wasn't lying about the other women,” Serena defends in her best casual banter.

“And I married and slept with a man for years,” Bernie replies as if trying to defend Serena's actions to her. “I don't think it makes me any less of a lesbian.”

“No. You're right,” Serena replies, but she wants to say the opposite. Wants to tell Bernie that, whatever Serena was before, she's changed - _something_ has changed. But there's logic to everything Bernie's said - hadn't Serena had the same thoughts? Bernie is still Lotus, whatever side she's actually on, and Serena is still with the Sanctuary. And she values Bernie's friendship (and she does think of her as a friend now), doesn't want to press beyond Bernie's comfort zone, would rather preserve what they have than try to push too far. “You're absolutely right,” she echoes, trying to hide behind her glass.

She misses whatever thought passes behind Bernie's veiled gaze, doesn't really want to know anyway. But Bernie raises her own glass, tilting it toward Serena's own with a somber smile. “To our… admittedly undeniable sexual chemistry,” Bernie confesses by way of a toast.

Serena shakes her head, almost manages to laugh. “To Helen Magnus, for getting us into this bloody mess.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the big-time spoilers start for the end of Sanctuary, so if you haven't seen it... Well, just be aware!
> 
> A warning for minor character death (Sanctuary canon), but this is sci-fi and lbr nobody stays dead long.

Only four days later, Serena remembers that she can be very cold and very unfair, even to those she cares about most.

It's late evening before they realize what's happened, that four of the other Sanctuaries have literally closed their doors and sold in the space of a single day. It's just London, Old City, and New York now. Dallas and Cairo are gone. Everyone's gone.

She's been trying to reach Old City, to reach Helen, since she found out, but no matter what channel or how many times she tries, she comes up empty. Honestly, she's ready to set something on fire and watch it burn. Forced to reckon with herself, she might admit that the anger she feels is intense to the point of irrationality. But there has not been time to come face to face with herself and her emotions, and even if there had been, anger is easy, and easy to hang on to.

Berenice Wolfe is the most logical, most available target for it all.

“You're the only one she wants to talk to,” Serena snarls, pointing to the laboratory computer. “You call her.” 

Bernie, for her part, has obviously been trying to be placating, and the effort doesn't stop now. She's almost infuriatingly calm. “Serena, that's not wh - ”

“What, Bernie, that's not what? ” Serena demands. “All along, you've been the only one who’s been able to communicate with her. So call her and find out what the hell is wrong with her.” 

Serena knows she’s being unfair, deep down; she knows that Helen has been calling the shots for Bernie all along, but it doesn't stop her from lashing out and laying at least some of the blame on the other woman.

“Serena…”

“Unless you already know?” The thought hits her so suddenly she feels her stomach turn over. It's illogical and ridiculous, Serena knows; if Helen trusted anyone at all with this, she would have told Serena, of course she would have. Nevertheless,there's that niggling fear, and a compulsion toward - what? jealousy?

“No, Serena, but - ”

“You are her little pet, aren't you?” Serena frowns, hating Bernie, hating Helen, hating neither of them, but very much wanting to. “Has she told you everything and left the rest of us in the dark?”

“You're not being fair, Serena!” Bernie exclaims in frustration, not quite shouting, but the closest Serena has ever heard.

Serena can tell her own words have found their mark.

“I'm not being fair?” Serena scoffs, some dark part of her wanting to egg Bernie on, needing someone to rail against, someone to fight. She needs this, needs somewhere to direct her anger, a way to feed it, because anger feels powerful, so much more powerful than helplessness or the way her heart aches at the look in Bernie's eyes.

“No, you're no - ”

 _No, you're not,_ she's going to say; this is as obvious as the day is long. But Serena breaks in again, the that final consonant never quite leaves Bernie's mouth.

“ _You're_ lying.”

Bernie's mouth hangs open just a little for a beat, then she suddenly draws herself up ramrod straight, eyes dark and cold. She's quiet for a long moment while Serena stands waiting for a blow.

It doesn't come. Instead, Bernie gestures in front of her briefly, palm turned down, as if to brush something away. She doesn't yell again. “I have _never_ lied to you.” By her tone of voice, Serena might have accused her of murder.

Serena can feel the ache now, can see the tight line of Bernie's mouth and the furrow of her brows. Bernie is hurting, maybe even struggling to compose herself.

It doesn’t do a thing to placate Serena.

“Then what were all those private conferences? What about your access to my systems?” she challenges, though, as with everything else, she knows deep down they really aren't fair accusations.

“That doesn't - Serena, I thought you _knew_ ; good God, we've talked about this!”

“And you expect me to believe that.”

“I’d like you to take me at my word, yes!” Bernie exclaims.

Again, Serena can tell she's struck a nerve. She feels a conflicting wave of self-satisfaction and self-torment rush through her, knowing by Bernie's posture and the look in her eyes that she's hurt the other woman.

But Serena's anger knows nothing of self-preservation. “Go back to Lotus, Major. You're not welcome here.”

“Serena - ”

She actually expects more of a fight. It's strange, Serena thinks, how little of it Bernie seems to have in her. Strange, and terrible. For a moment, she wonders what it would take to make Bernie really fight back, but in the next she reminds herself that Bernie is only party to any of it because of Helen.

She's nauseated now, as angry with herself - no, no, angrier than she is with Bernie.

Damned if she's not going to see this through to the end though.

She sneers. Raises her hand in the general direction of the door. Flicks her wrist as casually as you please, as if brushing at a crumb. Watches Bernie's nostrils flare at the overly casual dismissal. Her voice, however, is like ice when she speaks. “Get out of my house.”

She does: gathers up her laptop, thrusts it into her bag, and walks out of the lab with neither word nor glance. Her demeanor is calm, but Serena can see the tension coiled in her, can feel her own body drawn taught as a bowstring.

For the barest of moments, Serena wants to reach out and touch her, smooth her hand across Bernie's shoulders and sooth away all the tense lines of her. Then she comes back to herself, or maybe steers away from herself again.

She is suddenly much too tired to decide which emotions are real - no, not real; they're all real. Valid? And she's too tired for this too, this ridiculous, internalized argument over semantics. Serena is angry and confused, pride and trust alike wounded, and that's the truth of it. She wants nothing more that to drown herself in Shiraz and a pile of blankets.

So she does. She ploughs through every last drop, alternating between seething and raging and wallowing in self-loathing, and the other residents give her a wide berth. In fact, she sees no one else, not a single resident, for the remainder of the evening; not even Jason comes through to wish her good night, as is his custom. When she finally drags herself off to bed, she crawls under the covers and falls asleep with her emotions still in turmoil.

*****

_“Serena.”_

Serena is drifting at the edge of consciousness, befuddled by the sensation of simultaneously terrible and wonderful dreams. The details are gone before she is ever summoned to consciousness, but she is still exhausted, groggily stumbling toward wakefulness and feeling as though her unconscious mind has been dragging her around by the nape.

At first, she thinks the voice is a fragment of dream, but it persists.

“Serena. Serena, wake up.”

_Bernie._

For a moment, all she feels is confusion. Then, as she becomes slightly more aware, conflicting emotions. Then annoyance, as memory sets in. She'd sent Bernie away in anger, but now she's here.

In Serena's room.

God, the sun isn't even up yet.

“Serena?” There's something desperate in Bernie's voice, Serena realizes belatedly, blinking awake. She levers herself upright, realizing Bernie's hand had been resting on her shoulder only when it slips away.

“I told you to get out,” is the first thing that comes to mind, the first thing Serena trusts herself to say.

“I know,” Bernie says, but she sighs. Something about it seems relieved. “Get up.”

“I'm sorry?”

“Just log on to your computer, Serena.”

The fight is back in Serena now, not helped by her early awakening or the slight hangover. “What are you doing here?” Still, there's something about Bernie's tone, and Serena has always known the woman to be more level-headed than most. And so, although she questions, she also swings her legs over the side of the bed, getting a bit groggily to her feet.

“I can explain, Serena, just log on,” Bernie insists.

“What do you think I'm doing?”

“Right, just. It's important, that's all.”

“How important?” she asks, though Serena is aware that it almost comes out as a statement rather than a question.

“I don't want to tell you, but I think you need to know right now?”

This pulls Serena up short. She pauses, leaning over the desk with her password half typed, and turns towards Bernie questioningly.

“Bernie…” She pauses, unsure of what to ask, knowing only that something unpleasant is coming. No, it can't be good at all. She remembers yesterday, the four Sanctuaries that closed their doors without warning, leaving just London, New York, and Old City.

Bernie is silent for a moment that feels like an eternity. Serena can actually see her throat tense up when she swallows. “Just let me show you,” she finally says, gesturing toward the computer as if all the energy has flooded out of her in the span of a few seconds.

With some trepidation, Serena finishes logging in.

As soon as she moves to the side, Bernie hunches over the desk, calling up the computer system, jumping across pages as she looks for the right feed.

Serena knows she's found what she's looking for without Bernie having to say anything and before Bernie straightens from the computer.

The Sanctuary is burning.

Not her Sanctuary, of course. It’s a very real image: a barely recognizable cathedral engulfed in flames and collapsing in on itself. Serena feels the breath catch up in her lungs, feels her fingers curl against her own mouth as she raises her hand in absent, helpless gesture.

“That's Old City,” she whispers needlessly. She barely notices Bernie's nod. “When did this happen?”

“Less than an hour ago.”

Serena reels with the information. Emotions don't really come - just a knotted-up series of abstract thoughts that she tries desperately to contain. Her thoughts go to Helen, and then the other residents, with a sense of foreboding. SCIU and Lotus, damn them. Then comes the why. Why, why, why why why?

She's staring at the screen so intently, with a _why_ that's not just a word, but a feeling, resounding in her head, that it takes a moment for her to realize that Bernie is speaking again.

“Serena?”

Serena blinks, rotating her head a tiny bit towards Bernie, but not taking eyes off of the now-frozen image on the screen.

“Serena, does… Do the Sanctuaries have auto-destruct features?”

From her tone, Serena gathers that she is trying to rule out an attack. But an attack like this is not possible, not from the inside; the Sanctuary's defenses are too advanced. “Of course they do,” she answers absently, mind on their own security system. To what point, for what purpose, would Helen have activated hers? “You've seen what we do in here,” she adds, in a dark attempt at levity she doesn't feel. “Not that an explosion does much to control an escaped fire elemental, but imagine what it's like when Tesla comes through with one of his experiments.”

Bernie seems to ignore the half-hearted attempt at humour outright. Another stretch of silence passes before she asks, in a voice so small she reminds Serena of a child, “Do you think anyone was inside?”

Serena snorts, shakes her head, because the question makes her realize something:

_This was always coming._

With her throat and tongue suddenly feeling very sticky, it takes a few moments answer. Bernie is patient, a quiet presence at Serena's elbow, and Serena finds herself grateful in spite of everything she said the previous night.

She doesn't hate Bernie, even if in her anger she had tried convince herself that she did.

No, no. Bernie is her friend, in spite of everything, and her chest feels heavy with the knowledge that Bernie had come to her, to be the one to give her the news, in person and at her side.

It takes a lot to force more words out. “Just Helen,” she finally answers. She realizes her tone sounds angry, or maybe just dispassionate, but she doesn't care to correct it, doesn't think she can.

She thinks she might hate Helen.

“I… Serena, does the auto-destruct require you to be on-site?”

“Of course not. The countdown is five minutes by default, and she could have easily accessed it from a tablet nearby, especially with Henry’s help.”

“Then why - ?”

Serena doesn't need to hear the rest of the question. Helen is exactly the sort of person to go down with her ship as the ultimate political statement. “Because she's been planning this. Like a damn chess game. She just sacrificed her queen.”

Bernie licks her lips as she leans forward again, sighing down at the keyboard. The second monitor comes to life, and she's calling up search results again. “I don't see the checkmate,” she mutters. A grunt of frustration as her search hits a wall. “There's something else, but they keep censoring - _there_.”

_“I call them abnormals.”_

“Is that news footage?” It's a daft question, Serena knows, but she can't quite bring herself to believe the scrolling panel at the bottom of the screen, the announcement of Helen's name.

“It aired live just hours before the explosion. Also, someone broke through Homeland’s security measures barely half an hour before the explosion. From what I know, they were using Nikola Tesla's tech to keep the abnormals in, so I assume he found a way through.” Bernie pauses for a moment, then adds cautiously, “They still think he's underground by the way. We're the only ones who know he was in Old City.”

Serena huffs out a breath. It's all moot point, really. What does it even matter that they escaped at all, if there's no safe house for them?

“What makes you so sure she's dead, Serena? Or that she planned this?”

Serena finds herself answering without really stopping to think first. “Because she had 113 years to think about it, of course. She's not the type to come so far without a plan, or to let a plan go so pear-sha - ”

“Okay, stop.”

Serena does, glancing irritatedly at Bernie, who raises her hands as if in surrender.

“One hundred and thirteen years?” she asks, painstakingly enunciating each syllable.

Serena scowls, peering at Bernie for a long moment while processing the question. Lotus has world leaders on their side, and Helen has a long history with noted families all over the world, yet by Bernie's expression, she can't know that Helen was anything other than perfectly human.

“So they keep you in the dark too, do they?” She just manages not to laugh darkly at the realization.

“I don't know what you mean. A hundred years, Serena?”

Unbelievable. “What do you know about her history with the Network?”

Bernie frowns. “That she's been at the helm for a long time? That her great grandfather or someone founded it in the 1800’s?”

“Did they say it was her great grandfather?”

“Not in so many words no.”

“That's because her father founded the Sanctuary, _this_ Sanctuary, in the 1800’s. Helen was born in 1850.”

Bernie is staring at Serena as if she just sprouted a second head, and with everything else on top of it, it's enough to make Serena add, “Well you didn't think they were so intimidated by her looks, did you? The whole reason everyone defers to her despite some of her more questionable decisions is because she's been at it so long.”

Bernie lowers herself to the desk chair, lips drawn into a tight line. A span of silence stretches between them before she speaks again. “I don't suppose you're going to tell me how she could have been planning this for over a century, then?”

Strangely, explaining all of it is a welcome notion to Serena. Fact trumps emotion; facts, she can handle.

“You know of Adam Worth.”

“He destroyed Praxis, in Hollow Earth.” Bernie pauses uncertainly, chewing her lip. “And helped orchestrate sending the first wave of abnormals to the surface as a distraction for the insurgence that happened later.”

Serena nods, smoothes her hair back as she begins to pace the floor restlessly.

“The day those three calderas burst open, Helen followed Worth into Hollow Earth, and then went off the radar for hours before mysteriously turning up in the Old City Sanctuary again.” She waves her hand dismissively at that; disappearing and reappearing without explanation also seemed to be a trademark activity of Helen's. “Worth used the energy generated by those explosions to power a time machine of some sort, and Helen followed him back to Victorian England without a return ticket. After destroying him, she supposedly lived out the next 113 years in isolation before rejoining the timeline,” Serena explains.

“But if you know Helen at all, you know a century on a mountaintop isn't possible. The woman's worst fear was always sitting still.”

Serena has never shared her thoughts, her theories, regarding Helen's 113-year ‘vacation’ with anyone else; she had needled Helen for details a few times, but nothing had ever come of it, and then Helen had essentially broken off communication. She finds it all spilling out now.

“At best, she mastered five or six new forms of martial arts and learned to balance on one finger.” She says this with a dismissive wave of her hand. “More likely, she didn't spend more than a month on the mountaintop, and that was just deciding what to do next.

“This organization hemorrhages money without government backing; no number of private donors could carry it. Months ago, when the Network was cut off from UN support, that was her doing. Maybe it looked like she had no choice, but she kept them wrapped around her finger for too long not to have planned for it. The Sanctuaries closing, maybe it was to save money, but there's more to it than that. My guess is, she started finding sources of income almost immediately when she went back in time, knowing that the destruction of Praxis and the arrival of all those abnormals from Hollow Earth would lead to outside organizations trying to force our hands. If we were cut loose, we weren't beholden to them.” She pauses for just a moment, twisting the necklace she'd forgotten to remove last night between her fingers. “It hasn't stopped them trying, of course, or you wouldn't be here.” This time, when she references Bernie's ties to Lotus, it's without its usual venom.

“SCIU didn't exist yet, of course, but when she went back in time, she knew what to expect, who she had to contend with. _That_ is why I say this was premeditated. She had over a century to plan it all. And - ”

Serena stops short, energy flagging suddenly. The reality of it all sinking in all at once, she backs towards the bed, lowers herself to it while Bernie watches with wide eyes.

“She, ah. Ha.” Serena scrubs her face, covers her mouth again for a moment. “She told me it was all over, but I hadn't seen it yet.” They sit in silence for a long moment before Serena finds her voice again. “I suppose I know what she meant by that now,” she says bitterly.

She can feel Bernie's eyes on her, can feel the emotions creeping in, beginning to overwhelm her.

And then there's Bernie's voice, breaking through the silence, quiet and concerned. “Are you alright, Serena?”

“Of course,” she replies tersely, resenting the question, but resenting her own lack of self-control more.

Bernie leaves it there, doesn't press. “Why don't we try to get the facts, about what happened,” she suggests instead, voice still low.

Of course. Because they still know so little. Serena is convinced that her theories are correct, but they're still just theories: she's almost allowed herself to forget that.

“We'll most likely have to wait for Old City to contact us,” Serena replies slowly, knowing that they are unlikely to reach anyone themselves.

“Then we'll wait,” Bernie reasons. “Look, I'll go put on some coffee. Why don't you get dressed?”

The suggestion is nothing if not casual, but it reminds Serena that she’s still wearing nothing but a silk chemise.

“Of course,”she says, feeling a little warmth prickle across her skin at the realization. Absurd, really; although Serena doesn't make a habit of parading around in her nightie, she's comfortable in her body. “We should contact Victoria.”

 _We,_ she realizes belatedly. She'd said we. Kicked Bernie out less than twelve hours ago and welcomed her back in now with the most natural _we_.

Bernie doesn't seem to notice, or if she does, she is gracious or cautious enough not to mention it. “New York Victoria?”

“Yes. They should know.”

“Okay.”

As Bernie passes, she surprises Serena by curling her fingers gently around Serena's own, not quite taking her hand, but offering a momentary brush of contact that Serena unconsciously leans in to. But by the time Bernie has entered her space, she is gone from it again, slipping through the door without another word.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to matildaswan for her 1337 beta skills, and a special thanks to ames78 on this one too, for being my... Sanctuary outsider sounding board? That sounds good I guess, lol. I realized a little belatedly that that would bea good person to have betaing, and ames is a gem!
> 
> This should be the last of the Sanctuary shop talk for a while, for those not as familiar with Sanctuary canon. I'm so relieved!

The morning starts quietly.

Bernie makes a pot of coffee, hot and strong. It's Serena’s day to do the morning feedings, but Bernie starts on that too, before Serena ever makes it down to the kitchen. There's a note stuck to the counter in front of the coffee maker when she does get there, weary but carefully poised.

_Taking care of breakfast in the lab. - B_

Serena turns it over, half expecting something more, but that's all it says.

So Serena makes her way to the lab, steaming mug in hand, and hunkers down at a desk in the small adjoining office while Bernie makes her round of the habitats. She calls up the video footage again, Old City aflame and Helen Magnus revealing the existence of abnormals to a live audience. She calls New York. No priority line, because she feels guilty reaching out this late, Eastern time.

She tells herself it's guilt, anyway. Mostly, it's dread. Not that she'll admit to it.

No, from the moment Serena left her bedroom, dressed and with a little light makeup on, she has been the picture of composure, and she intends to keep it that way. She's already got most everything out of her system, as far as she's concerned. There'll be no teary eyes over the woman who abandoned them. Certainly not. Not even if she had been, at one point, Serena's best friend.

When she gets no response to her call, Serena glances up and tracks Bernie's movements through the large chamber as she goes through the motions easy as you please. Watches as she stops at Charlie and Deuce's habitat to reach in and smooth her hand over each of their heads. Deuce, now nearly Charlie's size, seems to glow with the same, unpleasant yellow hue Serena associates with stress or fear.

Serena looks away. Sighs. Punches the call button again.

*****

Bernie has long finished the morning rounds when Victoria, New York's House Head, comes on screen, disheveled and bleary-eyed.

Serena does not share her theories, doesn't even reveal that she believes Helen is dead; she only shares the facts. Maybe she would have gone further, maybe she wouldn't have, but they’re interrupted by an incessant buzz resounding from Victoria's side of the conversation - a priority call - before she can say much more.

“Doesn't say who it's from,” Victoria observes, frowning.

“Old City?” Serena suggests. “Tapping into the Network remotely?”

Victoria shrugs, activates a call on another screen.

“Oh, thank God. Hey, V.”

Although Serena can't see the other caller she recognises his voice: Henry Foss, Old City’s (and the whole Network’s, really) tech guru. 

“Conference London,” Victoria recommends by way of greeting. “I'm talking to Dr. Campbell now.”

“Okay. Good. Great,” Serena hears, muffled by two sets of computer speakers. “Wanted to make sure we could get you both at the same time. What is it, like, 3am there?” He sounds nervous, shaky. 

Someone else mutters something in the background, but Serena doesn't recognize the voice.

“Something like that,” Victoria confirms with a weary nod just as Serena's computer whines with an incoming call notification.

“Mr. Foss,” Serena greets evenly.

“Hey, Dr. C,” he grins, but the expression is pained at best.

No one seems willing to speak up again for a moment. Henry shrugs, backs away from the monitor. More faces come into view. Kate, in the background, looks almost ill. Serena has met her face-to-face only once, but she knows immediately that whatever has happened, Kate has taken it very badly. Tesla, who tends to look so bored with his surroundings, is fidgety at best. There is a blonde Serena doesn't know, but when Will Zimmerman moves into the camera's view, Serena realizes that the woman can only be Abby, their FBI contact and Will's girlfriend. She files this information away for later; what immediately strikes her is that Will is present at all.

“Victoria… Dr. Campbell,” he greets, and it's obvious that he is speaking for the Old City team.

Serena's hackles raise by default at the realization. Zimmerman had done well enough leading the Network when Helen had disappeared several months back, but it's common knowledge in the Network that he has recently taken a job with the same abnormal hunting group that spearheaded the UN cutting ties with the Network. Granted, it's also common knowledge that Helen put him there, but unlike Bernie, who has access to information on two sides of the field, he had been locked out of the Sanctuary entirely and had gone so far as to try to arrest Helen for information.

But really, what bothers her is that if Zimmerman is speaking for Old City, it means Helen can't.

Not that she's willing to admit this immediately, not to herself or anyone. She pushes the thought down, breaks the silence with an observation that is both casual and venomous.

“Dr. Zimmerman. I thought you were with SCIU.”

Although Will opens his mouth speak, it's Henry who says, from the edge of the frame, “Yeah, well, Lotus is behind you, so speak for yourself.”

He's on edge, defensive. Serena frowns, arches a brow.

“Oh, shut up, Wolfy; the two of you are practically family,” Nikola mutters. A half-hearted display of his typical humour; Serena has always known him to take great joy in starting tiffs and spats.

Henry bristles visibly. “Oh, c'mon, just because her name's - ”

Serena finds quite suddenly that she has already heard enough.

“Fine, shut up,” she barks, feeling Bernie shift behind her as all eyes turn towards their monitors. “We know what happened. Just confirm that it was the auto-destruct and tell us where Helen is.”

It's Nikola who actually speaks up. He does not mince words, nor does he beat about the bush. “Magnus activated the auto-destruct sequence just after sealing herself in the main lab. Henry and I were the last ones out.”

A pregnant silence passes as everyone absorbs the information. Serena feels… numb? Heavy. Tired. Elbow on the armrest of the office chair, she reaches up, fingers going absently to the pendant around her neck. She finds herself hyper-aware of Bernie's movements as the woman pulls a chair over, lowering herself into it just inches away from Serena's side. Her arm moves, the barest, secret gesture, so that no one else will know, and her fingers stretch out to brush Serena's knee.

Serena drops her arm, fingers just barely brushing Bernie's. _Stay,_ she hopes the touch says. She needs it, this touch: pours herself into others because _god_ does she love, and because she was not made to be alone; craves physical touch to the point that it becomes an absent gesture in passing.

Bernie has evidently picked up on this, and Serena is grateful for it. She is even more grateful that Bernie seems to read Serena's intent, and presses her fingertips into Serena's skin as an indication that she isn't leaving or withdrawing.

There's a momentary rush of emotion, a powerful swell that makes it feel like her heart is racing and tears are going to burst out of her. And then, she summons up a breath, breathes a heavy, forceful sigh, expels that feeling in favor of function.

It suffices.

“Do we want to know why she did something so stupid?” she asks.

No one comments on her opinion of Helen's actions (perhaps they all feel the same). Instead, Will begins to explain.

He explains Helen's partnership with Caleb, the Hollow Earth abnormal who became unofficial leader of the group building Homeland in the middle of Old City. He explains his own initial mistrust of Caleb, despite Helen choosing to work with him. Notes that Helen never trusted Caleb, that this was revealed in the end, that everything had been part of a plan he still doesn't understand.

Where is Biggie? Serena eventually wonders aloud, finally registering the absence of Old City's resident Sasquatch, Helen's long-time friend and butler.

In bad shape, Will explains, and Serena watches as Kate rises to leave her field of view, Henry following close behind. Will doesn't know if it was planned or not, but the Big Guy left the Sanctuary to live in Homeland, to help build, and found himself in much closer confidence with Caleb than Helen could have dreamed. It was Biggie who discovered that Caleb was among that select group of Hollow Earth abnormals who wanted to rule the surface rather than living peacefully upon it, Biggie who had betrayed Caleb's confidence to share evidence with the Sanctuary and foil Caleb's plans. Biggie who had been set upon by Caleb's men, and left for dead outside the Sanctuary's gate to taunt Helen before the group had set upon the Sanctuary itself.

The abnormals had already been moved, Nikola notes after a while, as if Helen had fully expected the attack. Other than that, no one knows anything; they've found no record of where the abnormals were moved to, or even when they were moved. Nikola knows only that Caleb and his men were on their way to the main lab, thirsty for blood, when Nikola left Helen there, sealing all but one door - the door Caleb would have used - behind him. He and Henry had barely escaped the blast; Helen cannot have survived.

They talk for a while after that, just Victoria, Will, and Serena mostly. About the missing abnormals. About SCIU and Lotus. Serena is fairly certain it's accidental when Will broaches the subject of Helen planning these events with an absent-minded question posed mostly to himself, but Serena picks up on his meaning because she has had the same thoughts.

So she presses him; of course she does. In the end, it's not very difficult. Abby jumps in and they talk about how they tracked Helen through history as Helen Bancroft; even though they have no photographic evidence of this Bancroft woman, her activities near Sanctuaries were too frequent to be coincidental. And besides, Helen had all but confessed that they were right about it all in her final confrontation with Will.

And then, bitterly, Will admits: “She said 'everything outlives its purpose.’ Hell, I guess if you're 274, it does.”

It strikes Serena that Dr. Zimmerman might just feel equally betrayed. But she’s more concerned with the bile rising from her gut, harsh and sickening at the back of her throat. Had their friendship outlived its purpose? she wonders, remembering that many people had always regarded Helen as cold. But never this cold, Serena had thought - certainly never to her. 

No one speaks for a span. Serena can tell, in the periphery of her attention, that the North Americans’ energies are flagging.

“The Network needs a leader, you know,” Will says after a while, expression schooled, tone void of emotion.

It's a good distraction. Serena arches a brow, wondering if he intends to nominate himself for the position. He does not.

“Dr. Campbell?” he asks on a sigh by way of recommendation.

She feels both eyebrows rise high on her forehead now, strives to school her expression. “Sorry?”

“There's no Sanctuary to run here, so it's just you and Victoria,” Will reasons. Serena can't help but find herself surprised.

“And…” Victoria trails off, pursing her lips for a moment before trying again. “My predecessor may have had his eyes on the Network, but I'm content in my House.” Everything about her tone suggests the exhaustion on her face, but she's still reasoning.

“And London still has political significance,” Will adds.

Victoria nods. “And you have a Lotus connection in-House.”

“ _And_ you are the one with a business degree,” Will almost drawls.

Serena feels herself bristling at the back and forth, irritation mounting quickly. Maybe Will and Victoria want to play at Executive Committee, but she's exhausted even thinking about it.

“Alright!” she cries, flapping her hands dismissively. “Good god, you'd think you were trying to pawn it off on me.”

Victoria smiles ruefully in response. “To be honest, I kind of am.”

And honestly? Serena doesn't blame her. But she's good at what she does, and for all that's happened, she doesn't mind the challenge. She softens a little, offers the younger Head of House the warmest smile she can muster in the wake of everything that has happened. “It's alright, Victoria.” She sighs, waves her hand again. “I really don't blame you.”

Everyone is quiet for a moment. Serena nods decisively. “So we need a plan. Four Sanctuaries closed their doors yesterday, so we try to track down those operatives. Victoria, You see to Dallas and Tokyo; I'll take Brisbane and Cape Town. Dr. Zimmerman, I suspect if your team can track down your missing residents, you might shed some light on Helen's plans. Otherwise, make contact with every operative, every source, every contact you have available to you. Find out who's still useful to you, who's gone underground.”

It’s Bernie who breaks the uncertain silence that follows. “If this was planned, if we're to use Dr. Campbell's chess analogy and assume that what happened yesterday was Dr. Magnus sacrificing her queen, I’m wondering if her idea wasn't to make Lotus and SCIU believe the Network was dying,” she says suddenly, thoughtfully. “I couldn't begin to guess why, but I can make sure Lotus thinks you are… let's say, crippled, but armed to the teeth. Best to make them believe you're only a threat on your own turf for now. My superiors will need to know about the handover of leadership anyway.”

Serena inhales, soaks it all in. Bernie is right. What she means to share with Lotus is essentially the truth and they can better decide how to proceed when they know more. She puffs out the breath with a nod. “Right. To work.”

Then she takes a good look at the faces on-screen, and remembers she and Bernie are hours ahead, that they are all exhausted. “Well, to bed first,” she amends. “Work can start in the morning.”

“I'm afraid it's already morning,” Victoria says wearily, a hollow attempt at banter.

Serena smiles softly, kindly. “I'm sure no one will begrudge you a nap. Good night.”

Will and Abby say their farewells, Nikola nods goodbye, and one screen goes dark. Victoria’s image lingers on the other.

“Serena?”

“Yes?”

“What do we do?”

Serena frowns, glancing briefly at the younger woman. “You have your orders for now,” she answers.

“No, I mean…” Victoria pauses, sighs. “What do we _do_?”

Suddenly, this feels like a very existential question to Serena, who honestly has not the time or energy for anything of the sort. But she's fond of Victoria - late thirties, clever, an exceptional sort of woman to have at your back. Self-assured, but more keen to follow than lead, never cocky. The uncertainty is unusual, and Serena can't help but soften. She musters her most understanding smile. “Our jobs; that's all we can do. Good morning, Victoria.”

“Good morning, Dr. Campbell.”

The call ends. Bernie's fingers press more firmly into Serena's thigh again.

Serena exhales, feeling herself deflate a little as she lowers her hand to cover Bernie's, squeezing back. She wonders if she should say thank you. Decides against it even as Bernie scoots her chair around, positioning herself to face Serena, close to her side.

“Okay?” Bernie asks.

Serena releases her hand, drawing herself up again. She finds it a little harder to keep her emotions tamped down, now that’s it’s just Bernie. 

“Fine,” she says quietly, but she knows she doesn't sound it. “Fine,” she repeats more firmly. Then, mustering up the barest ghost of a smile, she says, “You contact your people, I'll get started here.”

But Bernie doesn't move. For a moment, they sit there quietly, Bernie's hand on Serena's knee, Serena perched carefully in her chair.

Serena has almost managed to become annoyed when Bernie finally speaks.

“Serena…” At first, she seems uncertain. Then, with another gentle squeeze to Serena's knee, she wets her lips. “ _You’re_ my people,” she says softly. “And… you're the boss,” she adds with a somber smile. “If you need anything, just tell me; I'll see it done.”

Something about this statement, in all its apparent sincerity, tugs Serena's emotions in several directions at once. There are the underlying truths that led to her being in charge, of course, and all the turmoil that comes with them; but on top of them, an overwhelming, bittersweet swell, a sort of heart-wrenching fullness. Uncertainty, but then guilt - guilt for ever thinking of Bernie as anything other than loyal to them, to the Sanctuary's best interests, to her.

She swallows, hard. She's not sure how long she goes without saying anything, but it's long enough that Bernie withdraws her hand and begins to stand.

Serena reaches out to grasp Bernie's forearm, not wanting her to leave, not yet. “Wait,” she says needlessly; Bernie has already lowered herself to her seat again. “Bernie, I - ” _What?_

She labours over this, her lips parting as she tries to summon any words that safely describe what she feels. Bernie waits patiently, concerned, if the knit of her brows and the thin line of her mouth are anything to go by.

“Thank you,” she finally manages; it's all she can think of to say.

“You're very welcome,” Bernie replies, the same sincerity present in the soft husk of her voice, and her smile broadens a little - still not mirthful by any means, but with so much warmth Serena thinks she might burst open. 

Serena leans toward her before she's even thought the action through, fingers still curled around Bernie's arm, and kisses her. Because she wants to, because it feels like the thing to do, because she's been thinking about kissing Bernie again for the better part of several days. Even when she was angry, even when she was directing that anger at Bernie, she’d still thought about kissing her. 

And Bernie kisses her back, softly, her hand landing on Serena's cheek, thumb brushing her cheekbone. Serna moans gently, keeps her eyes closed, kisses blindly again and again, loses herself in the feel of Bernie's mouth, in her calloused fingertips and the soft, thin skin of her forearm.

She thinks, again, that in spite of everything, she may just be in love with Bernie Wolfe.

This thought brings her back to herself. It's too powerful, too much all at once. She's afraid she might cry if she doesn't contain herself, box her emotions up and put them away. Besides, they just agreed to forget the first kiss, to pretend it didn't happened, didn’t they? They did, so she withdraws, but only a little.

She feels Bernie's mouth close against her lower lip one last time as she takes a deep breath, sharing Bernie's air.

“Sorry,” she says shakily, though she immediately knows that it's a silly thing to say.

Bernie curls her fingers, knuckles gentle against Serena's jaw. “Don't worry about it,” she almost whispers.

Serena almost kisses her again. She fights the urge, because she knows it's too much, too fast, knows that she's much too fragile to let herself fall into this right now.

“Okay,” she says instead. She means it for herself as much as for Bernie. “Okay. You, um. Do what you need to do.”

Bernie draws back, and Serena realizes only when Bernie lays her hand gently against Serena's that she is still holding on to Bernie's arm. She loosens her grip, lets her hand slip away, and focuses on trying to interpret the look in Bernie's eyes.

“Alright,” Bernie says quietly after a moment. “I'll see you in a bit.”

“Of course.”

*****

“The way I see it, your best bet is to keep these contacts quiet: let them think you really are crippled, and that most of your contacts have gone underground with the rest of the Sanctuaries,” Bernie says later, hunched over a computer in the lab sifting through lists of operatives in and out of contact. They've barely scratched the surface, and that's only the list of people whose only Sanctuary contact is in London - it doesn't begin to brush the contacts who report to whoever is most available or appropriate, or known associates of the most recently closed Sanctuaries.

“You're the one who knows them,” Serena agrees without really looking at Bernie (it's so much easier to concentrate without the distraction of her mouth). A surprising number of operatives are still present and available to them; it's a relief to Serena that they haven't gone off the radar in the wake of so many Houses closing over the last eight months. Four in one day! Then there's the rapidly-traveling news of the explosion only hours before; news travels fast in an organization where everyone has their ears to the ground.

They're both quiet for a moment while Serena listens to the dial tone on her phone. When no answer comes, she ends the call; Samel never checks his voicemail - better to call later and wait for him to pick up.

Bernie takes an audible breath, and Serena chances a glance up at her over her laptop screen. She catches Bernie's eye then, and ducks her head in an attempt to avoid any lingering looks. Now is not the time for distractions, she has decided. While Bernie seems alright with this, hasn't broached the topic of their second kiss at all, Serena doesn't think Bernie knows quite the effect she has on Serena.

“They, um. They'll be wanting me to spend as much time here as possible, you know; they've already said as much.”

“Hmph. Bending us to their ways?”

“Gaining cooperation through sympathy or something of the sort,” Bernie murmurs. “Honestly it's the only reason they let me do this in the first place, so I suppose we've finally hit our stride, haven't we?” she says, dark irony bedded in her tone.

At first, Serena feels that impulsive flair of doubt at the mention of manipulation. It's silly though; the Sanctuary has lost nothing from the arrangement, so far as she can tell, and the values of her House haven't changed. She's beyond inventing petty quibbles for now. Instead, she considers Bernie's earlier statement.

“As much time as possible, then,” she says ponderously. “I could have a room made up for you.”

She poses the suggestion almost as banter, but truth be told, she's somewhat hopeful. She feels herself leaning on Bernie despite herself, despite how important self-sufficiency is to her. It's been a long time since she had a friend she could rely on. That's not to say she doesn't share burdens with Jason from time to time, or take solace in his company at others, but a nephew or surrogate son is not an adequate replacement for a friend.

After a moment, Serena realizes that Bernie is watching her, thoughtful lines crinkling at the corners of her eyes, as if she's carefully contemplating her options.

“If it's what you want,” Bernie finally says, words weighted and heavy despite the lightness of her tone.

The ball is in Serena's court then, she realizes.

“Well, you're here often enough already. Any more and you may as well live here,” Serena reasons, trying to convince herself of the rationale as much as explaining herself to Bernie. “It would certainly save you the commute.”

“It would.” It's blunt, objective - a mere observation.

Serena locks eyes with Bernie for just a moment longer, then nods decidedly. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Bernie repeats.

Serena can't help but feel somehow buoyed as they return to work.

*****

Late that evening, Bernie finds Serena tucked away in one of the guest rooms, smoothing down the duvet. She's called her superiors, let them know she's staying at the Sanctuary, and has a small duffel bag of clothes and necessities from home slung over her shoulder when Serena spots her.

“There you are,” Bernie murmurs from the doorway. “I thought you were going to have it made up.” It's a casual observation.

Serena merely shrugs. “I like making things homey,” she admits. “Besides, if you'd seen the way anyone else around here makes beds - ”

She's interrupted by a bark of laughter. “You might be disappointed by the way I make a bed.”

Serena snorts incredulously. “Really? The army Major?”

Bernie clears her throat a little, head flopping to the side. “You may have noticed that tidiness isn't exactly one of my more practiced skills.”

Almost, almost managing to laugh, Serena arches a brow. “You may have left rubbish lying about my office a time or two.”

“Sorry.”

“ _Well,_ ” Serena says in a more bantering tone. “Jason approves of my bed-making skills; surely you can at least tell if the bunk would be army-approved?”

“If you drop a penny on it, does it bounce?” Bernie asks, finally moving from the doorway towards the bed, hands shoved as far as they'll go into her tiny pockets.

“Afraid I haven't got one.”

“Then I guess we'll never know.” Bernie plops down on the edge of the bed, cocking a brow.

Serena rolls her eyes. Under other circumstances, she might have declared that she'd only _just_ finished making the bed, but the words don't come today. Instead, she moves around to seat herself at Bernie's side. Bernie's hands are still in her pockets; Serena slides her own between her knees.

They're quiet for a while, companionably so. But being in such an intimate space with Bernie makes Serena remember every question, every doubt. Less than a week ago, they had kissed. It had been unexpected, and unexpectedly wonderful, and unexpectedly terrifying. The next day, they had agreed to forget it had happened despite Serena's better judgment. That was stupid, she thinks now; she should have said what she was feeling. And then they'd kissed again - which doesn't even begin to touch the emotional roller-coaster Serena was - no, is - already riding.

How much of this is real? Serena wonders. What happens when they find their footing? What happens if they don't? How might it all have been different if Bernie hadn't come at a time of political strife within and without the Network, if Helen had been more forthcoming, if her plans hadn't ended with the Network in shambles and a Sanctuary (and Helen's life) being destroyed? Honestly, Serena doesn't think she can bear to contemplate these questions alone, in silence - certainly not when there are so many other things to worry over.

“What are we, Bernie?” she asks suddenly, the question heavy on her tongue.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… I mean what are we? Are we just two… silly women who - who kiss each other when it… seems like the thing to do, or…?”

“No, I mean, I don't know,” Bernie murmurs, voice so soft it almost cracks, somewhere between a whisper and a murmur. “Is that what you want us to be?”

Serena turns her head, peering at Bernie for a moment before answering. She swallows, chewing on the words. It definitely isn't what she wants, but she's not sure how to define what she does want. “No,” she tells the wall anyway.

“Then what do you want it to be?” Bernie asks after a moment's hesitation.

It's the question she was afraid of. Serena shrugs it off. “I don't know. What do you want?” she asks, backpedaling, evasive. She feels too much now - is afraid to admit to feeling anything more. Nor does she want to misspeak. Or, worse yet, reveal something that Bernie doesn't feel in return. She feels much too fragile for all that. She wants Bernie to tell her what _Bernie_ wants, wants to cower behind that shield.

“I asked first,” Bernie retorts lightly.

Serena turns her face towards her in response, and realizes a moment too late how unguarded her features must be. Bernie's face falls a little, and Serena swallows, feeling a little guilty for putting her emotions on display.

“Okay, okay,” Bernie murmurs with the tiniest smile. Serena realizes she's trying to appease her, maybe even that she's just as afraid. “Me first.” She exhales, turns frontwards again. “I like you, Serena.” It's almost a whisper. Said in any other tone, Serena might have scoffed, but it sounds so sincere… And then Bernie beats her to it: exhales on a quiet laugh and shakes the fringe further into her eyes (Serena wants to push the waters bangs to the side, has half a mind to trim then herself). “No, I… I more than like you,” she amends, turning to Serena again with an expression so open and gentle Serena has to swallow again, hard.

“Me too,” she whispers, blindly searching out Bernie's hand with her own. “I mean, you, not me,” she adds belatedly, halfway to a lame attempt at humour.

“Well, I mean, you too, I hope. You are quite likeable. I think so, anyway.”

This time, Serena does scoff, exhaling shortly through her nose before she can stop herself.

“What?” Bernie demands, and Serena melts a little. “It’s true. For all the trouble you gave me.”

It's not really that Serena doesn't find herself likeable: she's very much aware that she can charm the pants off of just about anyone, with nigh on Helen’s rate of success. But she also doesn't willingly put herself - or rather, her emotions - out on display enough to allow people to like her at all beyond that same, skin-deep charm, the wiles she uses to endear herself to people. The fact that Bernie, who has borne Serena's disdain for months, could even begin to like her is… somehow humbling.

Knowing this, that Bernie likes her despite everything, fills her with too many emotions at once. She feels like a child - perched shoulder to shoulder on the edge of a bed with someone who makes her heart stutter and her stomach do somersaults.

She's kissing Bernie before she wholly realizes what she's doing, and the feeling the kiss evokes is far too complex and knotted up to detangle. She does like Bernie, suspects she’s already stumbling unwillingly into love with Bernie. But her lips, the willing return of the kiss, is pleasant and wonderful and _confusing_ , because when has she allowed Bernie to become fond of her? And because damn it all, she misses her best friend.

Suddenly and without warning, Serena is crying. Everything, all of it together, is too much too fast, and it comes bubbling out of her in the form of a shaky sob as she ducks her head, trying to hide from Bernie's gaze.

“Sorry. I'm sorry,” bubbles haltingly out of her as she feels Bernie's hand land on her shoulder, a tentative gesture that makes her feel even guiltier.

“It’s okay,” she hears Bernie say, breath warm in her hair. “I'm here.”

_I'm here._ The way Bernie's hands touch her back, inching around to form an awkward embrace, you'd think she didn't know what a hug was, but those two words make it feel somehow alright. The hug is a boon, Bernie's breath on her neck a small comfort.

For a moment, Serena dreads this; she's certain that these small gestures of comfort will only make it all worse. But when she takes a long, slow breath, a concentrated effort to gain control of her emotions, she finds that she does feel somewhat more in control. One more shaky breath, and Serena can wipe the tears from her eyes without the gesture being utterly futile.

She draws back just a little, and Bernie plants both hands firmly on her shoulders for a moment. “Stay there.”

She does, watching in bewilderment as Bernie pushes herself upright, crossing the few steps to the door. It had been left open; the realisation floods Serena with dread. Had anyone else - ? No, impossible, she certainly would have heard them if they had walked by.

“I don't think anyone else was in the hall,” Bernie observes quietly. She's not exactly phenomenal at reading a room; Serena wonders if Bernie is equally uncomfortable sharing what she feels, to know that this was Serena's fear.

On second thought, she has no doubt of this.

Serena forces a smile, nods as she uses the heel of her hand to scrub her other eye dry. “Of course.”

She breathes, in and out, in and out. Careful, steady breaths. Bernie returns to her side slowly, as if she's afraid of frightening her off, or maybe afraid that Serena will bite, and eventually lowers herself to the edge of the bed again.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Serena answers immediately. But this is a lie. “No.” Also not quite true, she realizes, swallowing hard as she gazes at the wall. It's this vacillating uncertainty that sends the surge of emotions climbing up her spine again, belly to chest and on up. Her head feels heavy, full. She bends under the weight of it, expels another forceful breath, but it doesn't make the feeling go away. Instead, the tears leak out again.

Damn. Just when she thought she had herself under control.

She can feel Bernie shifting beside her, folding a leg onto the bed as she turns. Her hand is warm on Serena's arm. She ghosts a touch across Serena's back, lays a hand on either of Serena's shoulders in a distant sort of embrace.

“What do you need?” Bernie asks after a span, voice low over Serena's occasional hitching breaths.

Serena shakes her head. Resists the urge to lean into Bernie's body, resists her gravity. Pushes herself upright instead. “Just give me a minute,” she mumbles, making for the bathroom with a hand outstretched across her collarbones, as if the pressure could keep her feelings in.

When she spots herself in the mirror, she almost turns her gaze away. She looks a wreck. A hopeless, emotional wreck, all puffy and red and watery-eyed. She doesn't like this Serena, has difficulty accepting this person as a part of herself; knows she shouldn't consider her emotions weakness, but feels they are all the same. She wants, needs, control, not this chaos.

Just over the sound of water running, she hears Bernie's voice, but she can't quite make out the words. She splashes water on her face, runs it over her wrists. Rinses her face again, snags a tissue to blow her nose.

Once she has patted her face dry, she assesses herself in the mirror and judges herself more or less presentable. Better than before anyway. Honestly though, she's beginning to wonder why she didn't just excuse herself off to her own room; the prospect of facing Bernie again fills her with trepidation. Bernie is obviously just as far outside of her comfort zone consoling another person as Serena is with allowing herself to be consoled. Nevertheless, she's here now, so she has no choice.

Except that, when she leaves the bathroom, Bernie is nowhere to be seen.

She stands there for a moment, weighing her emotions. Relief and abandonment in equal measure. Annoyance, with herself and Bernie. Just when she was beginning to trust her…

“Bloody hell, Berenice.”

As if on cue, Bernie emerges through the door, left barely cracked upon her departure. She stops in the doorway, staring at Serena with her eyes large and doe-like. “Erm,” she says by way of greeting.

Serena sizes her up, belatedly schooling her expression. Bernie is juggling a full glass of water in one hand, a bottle of whisky and a snifter in the other.

“What on - ”

“Um… sorry? I'm not very good at this,” Bernie mumbles, lowering her gaze for a moment. “I wasn’t sure which was better?” She lifts her hands, raising first the water, then the whisky as if for appraisal.

It startles a laugh out of Serena. A bright, absurd laugh that makes Bernie blush. She kicks the door shut as if just remembering it, and Serena closes the distance between them to take the whisky and snifter out of her hand. She takes half a step backwards, rethinks this, and then moves forward to kiss Bernie's cheek.

“You're better at it than you think,” Serena murmurs by way of thanks. Bernie seems to have a great deal of talent for throwing Serena off-balance. Today, right now, she is grateful for it. She tries to tell Bernie this with her eyes, but whether Bernie understands or not is unclear; she's still a little flushed, fingers of both hands wrapped around the glass of water.

“Come on,” Serena says when she's had quite enough of the standing about. “Let's share.”

Sat on the edge of the bed again, she fills her glass, takes a long, burning swallow, and fills it again before Bernie has made it to the bed. She passes the glass over and Bernie drinks too.

They sit in silence like this for a while, passing the glass back and forth. Serena feels no desire to speak, and Bernie is evidently fine with this; somehow, this doesn't surprise Serena. It's not totally comfortable, per se, but she does find it comforting regardless, this unsteady companionship. She tries not to think too much, tries to just soak in Bernie's company, the warmth of their thighs pressed together, the steadiness of Bernie's presence beside her.

Eventually she has just enough fire in her belly that it seems absolutely normal to ask if she can stay with Bernie. And Bernie, perhaps, has just enough fire in hers to acquiesce. Really, they've both had more than is strictly necessary.

Bernie changes, returning from the bathroom in boxer shorts and vest. Serena has not left, but dressed down for comfort: shoes, socks, blouse and bra abandoned, vest and trousers judged comfortable enough for the night.

It takes a great deal of self-control to keep some distance between their bodies. Bernie's eyes gleam in the shadowed city lights filtering through the curtains as they lie facing each other.

“Thank you,” Serena murmurs, shifting, reminding herself that snuggling up to Bernie's body is neither appropriate nor, probably, wanted; Bernie doesn't come across as much of a cuddler.

“Of course,” Bernie almost whispers.

Within minutes, Serena is asleep.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that I will literally never again update a fic this quickly?

On her best days, Serena is an impossibly heavy sleeper, but she's blessed with a fantastic internal clock and she rather thinks that makes up for it. Alarms are an obsolete formality; she can count on her fingers how many times in her adult life she's decided to wake up at a certain time and failed to do so. And besides, she can sleep through a buzzer easily if she wants to. Raised voices, likewise, don't typically rouse her very easily.

Conversely, whispers and low voices have a much more profound impact.

She wonders for a single, groggy moment if that's why she wakes to the sound of Bernie's laboured breathing.

Bernie has rolled to her back at some point during the night and Serena has gravitated towards the middle of the bed, her nose nearly brushing Bernie's cheek. Bernie is on her back, rigid, so tense Serena can almost feel the tension without them actually touching. She stays curled on her side for a few moments as her eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through the windows and beneath the door, watching Bernie in profile. She is sheened in sweat, twitching slightly; the flutter of her eyelids betrays the fact that she is deep in REM sleep.

“Bernie?” Serena asks hesitantly, quietly, feeling guilty for waking her but wanting the nightmare to end. 

She wonders what she’s dreaming about, wonders where her thoughts are. On recent history, or events long passed? Or is it fiction: cruel imaginings haunting her, keeping her from the rest Serena knows they both need? Serena imagines most of Bernie's nightmares are probably founded in truth. 

“Bernie,” she repeats a little louder, laying her hand gently on Bernie's arm and giving her a small shake. “Bernie.”

Bernie suddenly gasps raggedly, her fingers closing forcefully around Serena's wrist, and Serena nearly jumps out of her skin.

“Bernie, it's me,” she says with some urgency, trying to draw Bernie out of her daze. Then it occurs to her it's awfully silly to assume Bernie will recognize _me_ as Serena - it’s not as if they've ever woken up beside each other. (Serena dozing on the sofa one night while Bernie and Jason watched a documentary on some lost civilization or other doesn't count.) “It's Serena,” she amends more quietly, even as Bernie's grip slackens.

“Sorry,” Bernie musters after a long moment of silence. “Sorry.”

A brief start is nothing to Serena though. She shakes her head against the pillow, giving Bernie's arm a quick rub, a gentle squeeze. “It's okay,” she soothes. “Are you alright?”

Bernie is quiet for a moment, then she nods. “I'll be fine. Just, um. I'll be back,” she mumbles, rolling away from Serena to lever herself upright. It's slow going, Serena realizes; Bernie's movements are efficient, practiced, but somewhat unnatural.

When Bernie disappears into the bathroom, Serena's mind wanders sleepily, the sound of running water lulling her. Is Bernie always stiff upon waking? Does this fade away after being up for a while? Or has Serena caught her off her guard, betraying a chronic condition that she usually masks? Serena has never considered that Bernie's accident might have left lasting damage; although she certainly recognizes it as a strong possibility, even a likelihood - she's a doctor, after all - Bernie has never given her a reason to wonder, until now.

Serena has almost managed to drift off again when the bed shifts under Bernie's weight. She blinks awake, hums an absent-minded greeting as Bernie lies down beside her again.

“Better?” she asks, thinks briefly how just hours ago she had been in Bernie's shoes, excusing herself to regain some semblance of control.

Bernie nods in affirmation; her uneven fringe, now more than a little damp, obscures her eyes. Serena doesn't think, merely reaches up, brushes Bernie's bangs back, and then settles her hand against Bernie's cheek.

“Sorry,” Bernie mumbles again. Serena gets the sense that she's trying fill the silence.

“I can't imagine why you're apologising,” Serena murmurs, stroking her fingertips along Bernie's jaw, tracing the shell of her ear. “Do you have them often?”

“I - ” Bernie hesitates, and Serena can just barely see her brows knitting together in the darkness.

Serena sighs softly; it’s her turn to apologise, she thinks. “Sorry. I just… imagine it comes with the territory. Years in the military, and…”

“Getting blown up?” Bernie offers when Serena trails off.

“I suppose.”

Bernie sighs quietly. Serena takes the silence as an answer. She moves closer; a small part of her wonders if it will make Bernie feel crowded. She neither tenses nor pulls away, so Serena stays close.

“Do you always hurt?” Serena asks before she can stop herself. She chalks it up to exhaustion: on the edge of sleep, she doesn't fight curiosity or fondness.

“Only sometimes,” Bernie mumbles. They're so close, Serena can feel Bernie's chest rise when she breathes.

Serena may be sleepy, but she is shrewd:“Sometimes it hurts, or sometimes it hurts enough to acknowledge it?”

She takes Bernie's silence as an answer. She doesn't know what to say in response though, so she doesn't say anything. Just nestles into the bedding and, in the silence, drifts swiftly back towards sleep. 

When she wakes again, it's with her head tucked under Bernie's chin, Bernie's breath even against her hair, her pulse slow beneath Serena's ear.

*****

Serena doesn't mean to wind up in Bernie's bed again. The first time was probably a mistake. Neither of them speak of it as such, but of course they really don't speak of it at all. They are busy, and there are no opportune times to have such a discussion privately.

But two days later, Serena is feeling particularly at a loss. They've met dead end after dead end trying to track down missing abnormals, despite the presence of many active contacts, and the reality of the situation as a whole has really begun to set in. Earlier in the day, she had gone to call Old City for advice, only to remember that Helen… well, there's no help to be had, is there?

Bernie is well and truly worked into the feeding rotation now, and it's her night to do the 2am feedings. Serena is in her room when she finishes.

Originally, she'd come under the ridiculous pretense of making sure Bernie had fresh towels ( _at two a.m.,_ god she wants to kick herself), but when Bernie finds her, she's making the bed again. Serena can tell Bernie hasn't put any effort into straightening it, and frankly, she had been appalled by the state of it upon entering.

“Um, hi?” Bernie says from the doorway.

Serena glances at her over her shoulder, nods. Before she can quite say anything, Bernie speaks again.

“You do know I'm just going to sleep in that again, right?”

Honestly, how old is Bernie, twelve? Serena arches a brow, then shakes her head in disbelief. “Sure you are, but don't you just feel the difference crawling into a nice, made-up bed with clean, crisp sheets?” she asks in as bright a voice as she can muster; she thinks it probably sounds more bitter than she would like.

“Uh… maybe. But not enough to worry about making it up every day.” Bernie manages to look almost apologetic, despite the conviction in her voice.

Serena sighs. “Well, it's made now. And you've got fresh towels.”

Bernie blinks, smiles a ghost of a smile. “I, um. I can use a towel more than once too.”

Annoyance flares up in Serena at that, and she makes a noise of disapproval. “Well you have them for next time. You make it very difficult to be a good host, you know.”

“Um… I would think it's easier if - ” Although Bernie's argument sounds genuine, she cuts herself off with a shake of her head. “Thanks,” Bernie amends quickly; Serena thinks maybe she’s trying to avoid an argument. And they _will_ argue; it’s not as if all of their little spats have just been on account of Serena's distrust of Lotus, after all. Bernie Wolfe is a mystery to Serena in some of her habits, and too much like Serena herself in others. They are not women who give way easily, and they are opinionated. Being Bernie's friend is sometimes more difficult than being her enemy.

Serena manages little more than a _hmph_ of displeasure in response, and makes for the door. “Good night.”

She doesn't want to leave though. She came for companionship - what else would she be doing here at two o'clock in the morning? Bernie has been gracious enough not to point it out, but Serena finds herself willing Bernie to offer up an invitation to stay.

And it works.

“Are you going?”

Serena tilts her chin, puts on a casual display. She's so much more than she was two nights ago, won't take the invitation at the expense of appearing weak however badly she might need touch, companionship, a friend. “What else would I do?”

They stand there for a few moments, facing each other. Bernie's gaze is a little unsettling: her lips almost vanishing into a thin line, eyes narrow and trained carefully on Serena's face.

Finally, Bernie seems almost to deflate. Her eyes go soft, despite the frown on her lips. “I thought you might stay. That you might, um, want to stay.”

Hope wells in Serena's chest, but she can't help replying: “If that's what you want.” She feels guilty for this, can't help it. But she is at an emotional impasse. Again, she finds herself willing Bernie to understand.

It's Bernie's turn to sigh. Her voice is quiet, but intense when she replies. “Stay or go, Serena. I'm here. I don't want to play games.”

Strange: Serena has never felt simultaneously embarrassed and buoyed before. She feels herself flush a little in response, but Bernie steps forward, gives her the tiniest shadow of a smile in passing, and suddenly everything seems okay. Not good, but okay.

They're both already dressed for bed; there aren't many late night feedings to worry about, so they're just a blip in Bernie's nighttime schedule. Truth be told, Serena is fairly certain she had snuck off for a nap earlier. She doesn't ask though, doesn't say anything - just curls into the bed at Bernie's side.

Once she has turned off the lamp, Bernie faces her in the darkness like last time. Serena can only just make out the shape of her, but can feel Bernie's eyes on her.

“Serena whatever happens, I… I know we'll be fine. I know you can handle whatever comes,” Bernie says softly, but with so much conviction Serena shivers. “We're going to make it, Serena.”

And there's that word again, _we_ \- one small pronoun, two letters, but it means so much. Serena is beyond questioning Bernie's loyalties now. She's her colleague, her ally, her friend. Bernie is _hers_ Having her steady presence at her side is the greatest boon Serena could ask for in times like these.

Come morning, she's pressed against Bernie's body again. Bernie is still, her heart slow and steady - so slow, so steady, Serena caves to curiosity and allows her hand to trail along to the pulse point of Bernie's wrist. She watches the clock, counts down the subtle rhythm against her fingertips for a full minute.

Sixty-two beats per minute. But then, just at the end there, picking up. She counts out the next ten seconds a little more cavalierly, multiplies it out in her head, gets to sixty-six, or maybe it was seventy-two. It doesn't really matter, because she realizes belatedly that Bernie's breathing has changed too.

As soon as she releases Bernie's wrist, she hears (feels, is ensconced by) a soft hum that begins low in the other woman's chest.

“Am I going to make it, doctor?” Bernie asks lowly, voice husky with disuse, the gentlest of barbs.

“I think so,” Serena replies, flushing with embarrassment at being found out, and grateful that Bernie can't see the red tint no doubt decorating her cheeks. “But then, I haven't read your file.”

“You mean you haven't hacked the NHS systems to get it yet?” Bernie asks with a playful _tut_. “I'm almost disappointed.” Serena tries not to be distracted by Bernie's rough morning voice.

“Hm. Jason didn't find it relevant, and he doesn't hack unless he sees a reason for it.”

“I'll have it on your desk today then.”

Serena withdraws a little, arching a brow up at Bernie. “That's really not necessary.”

“You'll need it if something happens,” Bernie rationalizes.

Serena almost retorts that if something happens, she'll be able to get the file, but it's better to have it on hand anyway. Besides, if it isn't exactly a romantic gesture, this does seem like a gesture of good faith. She'll take it.

“Thanks,” Serena replies as she pushes away. “I'm holding you to it.”

“Promise not to disappoint.”

*****

Five days later, Serena wakes to an empty bed that isn't hers. She barely remembers coming to Bernie's room. It had been late, she knows. She rolls to her back, stretches. She can just remember rapping quietly on Bernie's door, the muffled invitation to enter; Bernie on her side, barely awake. Serena had curled up behind her, nuzzled up to Bernie's shoulder, and almost immediately found the sleep that had been eluding her for hours.

There's no sound from the adjoining bathroom. Serena stays there for a few minutes, wondering where Bernie might have gone so early while slowly making a catalogue of each stiff joint, flexing limbs and muscles carefully. Her right hand tingles uncomfortably as the blood returns to it.

Before she manages to drag herself out of bed, the door opens. Quietly, as if afraid of waking Serena, Bernie slips in. She's clad in runners, too-short shorts, a sports bra, and vest, and perspiration still shines on her skin in places from what must have been a morning jog; Bernie has mentioned that she runs frequently, though Serena hasn't been aware of her doing so since moving into the Sanctuary. Then again, if she always ran this early… 

“Oh. I didn't wake you, did I?” Bernie asks when she meets Serena's eye.

Serena shakes her head, lifts herself up on one elbow. Bernie has a damp patch on her front; Serena wonders just how much of a jog it would take to work up that kind of sweat at this time of year - she can't even imagine stepping a single foot out the door in what Bernie's wearing now. “How far did you run?”

Bernie shrugs noncommittally. “Around the block a few times?”

Around - oh, honestly. Serena rolls her eyes at the vague (and obviously modest) answer and levers herself all the way upright. She can't help but scan the length of Bernie's leg as she does so, has to force her mind to something else as her eyes trail up Bernie's frame, finally landing on her face again.

She's been doing a little research; Bernie had delivered a complete medical history, as promised, and Serena has sifted through bits and pieces of it for relevant information. Admittedly, she's read the entire account of Bernie's recent injury. Twice. Every prognosis, every progress note. Maybe it's overstepping the line a little when it comes to Bernie's privacy but, well, Bernie had delivered the flash drive into Serena's hands willingly.

“Must have taken a while to get back into the swing of it,” Serena says, eyeing Bernie carefully. “When did you start running again?”

It's an innocent enough question, and at first Bernie looks like she's ready to treat it as such. Then she narrows her eyes at Serena, really looking at her for a moment. She parts her lips as if to speak, closes them again, and then says “You've been reading my file. Shouldn't that be for legitimate medical use only?” Strangely, she doesn't sound accusatory.

“I make it a point to familiarize myself with the medical history of all my residents. Even if their medical record is just research on their species.” It's not a lie. “Like you said, if anything happens to you here, I'm your first port of call,” she reasons, though she feels no real need to defend herself, despite that she knows she's been prying a bit.

“That you are.”

They're both silent for a span. But Serena is curious, doesn't plan to let this go easily. “You'd only just started walking without a cane when you arrived on my doorstep.” She'd never realized this before, but now that she thinks back on it, Bernie had always been at her elbow, never quite walking alongside her. She'd assumed at the time that she was perhaps trying to show deference; she had always admitted readily that it was fair for Serena to distrust her, had allowed Serena to call the shots and been willing to learn. She'd moved more slowly at other times too: Serena has always preferred expedience, efficiency. Bernie's almost ambling pace in those early days had been neither, and had caused Serena no small amount of annoyance; now she realizes, with a pang of guilt, that she might have been struggling to keep up with Serena's quick steps.

“Funny thing about that,” Bernie says quietly, “is they wanted me to come to you with the cane. I suppose they thought you'd take pity on your poor, crippled Lotus operative.”

Serena snorts at this, and catches Bernie's eyes glimmering too.

“You _were_ well ahead of schedule though,” Serena observes after a moment.

“Was I? I mean, I know they told me I was, but it felt like forever. I'm not very good at being still.”

“You're lucky to be walking at all, much less running.”

“Beyond lucky. I know.” Bernie pauses, then walks over to lower herself to the bed. “Still, recovery was worse than being strapped to that damned backboard for hours on end. Not being able to walk at all on my own, then having to use a bloody cane all the time?” She pauses again, wetting her lips. Serena watches her, tracing the line of her brow, the downward curl of her mouth. “It was humbling in the worst of ways.”

“Oh, come now…”

“No, it is. I'm not good at relying on other people. Not like that. Relying on my team to have my back, of course, because I had theirs too. But being forced to - not being able to - it was… It's unbearable.”

Serena understands, she thinks, being able to give care freely but struggling to receive it in return. She's certainly never been very good at accepting it in any case. On the occasion that she trusts someone enough to let her guard down - well, those times have been few and far between for a long time. Luckily, the Sanctuary is not the NHS, and all of the scientists and doctors involved are on mostly even footing, regardless of gender or age, or even whether they're human or abnormal; she's had her fair share of run-ins with such issues in her time in hospitals, being passed over for less-capable doctors just for being a woman. A little of that persistent need to be strong, capable, unflappable, is probably carry-over from her days in hospitals.

Then there's her mother - another issue entirely. Fierce, strong, and utterly unaccepting of failure. Loving, yes. But so damned difficult to please. Serena is more like Adrienne McKinney sometimes than she cares to admit. So yes, yes, she does think she understands; she nods.

“No argument here,” she adds after another moment. “Though it may be hard to see that now.” She is, after all, crawling her way into Bernie's bed at night for solace.

“Not judging you,” Bernie replies, smiling a ghost of a smile as she pats Serena's knee. Serena feels the truth of the statement, manages to smile back.

“Listen, I've got to shower, but… meet you downstairs for breakfast?” Bernie asks after a span.

Serena nods, smiles again. “Sure.”

“Good,” Bernie says, pushing herself off the bed. Serena is still sliding out from under the covers when Bernie, back to the room, strips out of her vest on her way to the bathroom.

Serena's eyes linger as Bernie walks, on the way Bernie's scapulae shift under her skin, the curve of her spine, the bend of her hip. The action has much, much more effect than it should, and she stares at the bathroom door after Bernie closes it behind her, a little breathless, a little taken aback by the sight of so much skin and her own ridiculous reaction.

For some reason, it's this Bernie who enters Serena's dreams. She has had fantasies before now, certainly - she wouldn’t deny that - but she has never actually dreamed of Bernie until now. 

But now this woman, with legs for days, with sweat pooled at the small of her back and beneath her breasts, with half her hair fallen from her haphazard ponytail, won't leave Serena be. Not the woman in uniform at her door, who made Serena's stomach turn so many months ago; not the Bernie who wreaks havoc on her sensibilities in black skinny jeans and long white blouses, the combination of which somehow makes all of her look impossibly long, impossibly lean. Not even those ridiculous boxer shorts she wears to bed.  
It's this Bernie Serena dreams about, with the smattering of sparse freckles scattered over her thighs, warm muscles moving freely as her blood rushes with endorphins, the scar on her sternum visible above her bra (Serena can imagine kissing that scar, stem to stern, kissing it and silently thanking Bernie's surgeon for delivering her out of the shadow of death and into Serena's arms).

It’s this Bernie Serena’s subconscious conjures up to kiss, her breast still heaving from her run, skin sweat-sticky under Serena gliding hands. This Bernie who startles Serena awake with an outcry, alone in bed with her hand buried between her legs and her mouth gasping open.

She stretches, long and languorous, eyelids fluttering shut again, her whole body alight, tingling. She breathes deeply, sighs it out again, can't keep the contented smile from curling at the corner of her mouth. Oh, she's in for it now, feels the contentment and fear, and maybe even annoyance, waging war within her. She curses herself, curses Bernie, because now she knows that she is well and truly in too deep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holla at matildaswan for being a lovely beta, per usual


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that I have no self control?
> 
> I meant to mention last time that [I'm not calling you a liar](https://youtu.be/u4iseF_FBn8) has been stuck in my head for this au since its inception... So that's a thing.

Weeks pass. One day at the Sanctuary rolls into the next: organizing contacts, hunting down abnormals. After the first few weeks of housekeeping come proper missions, more than ever. Serena flies to Germany to help relocate a group of abnormals whose movements have come under Lotus’ gaze. She meets with a HAP named Siobhan whose transformations have become unpredictable (judges this to be the fault of external stressors, relocates her temporarily to the Sanctuary and gets her set up with a Network counselor). She organizes with Victoria and Will and the remainder of Old City.

Bernie goes on missions when it makes sense, when she can offer information to Lotus without it jeopardizing the lives of the abnormals they go to protect. Other times, she offers leads; sometimes Serena acts on them, sometimes another operative does.

And every few days or so, Serena finds herself in Bernie's bed.

Sometimes when she wakes, Bernie is gone. She slips out before the other woman returns from her morning run, knowing that seeing Bernie in her running kit isn't what she needs. But more often than not she wakes to find herself curled towards the warmth of Bernie's body. 

Bernie becomes accustomed to her presence, stops migrating to the far side of the bed in the night, starts surprising Serena with a returned cuddle. Those moments seem to shock Bernie just as much as they do Serena. One morning, Serena wakes with Bernie's arm stretched across her middle. It feels good and warm and _right_ , Bernie's forearm across her belly, the subtle pressure of her wrist against Serena's hip. She lies there much longer than she cares to admit before she can bring herself to move.

They haven't so much as kissed again, not since confessing that they liked - or rather, more than liked - each other. Sometimes Serena finds herself watching Bernie's mouth, or catches Bernie with her eyes on Serena's lips. But what they have now is… well, it's good. In an odd way, certainly, but good. 

Serena really isn't sure how to rationalize the polarities of her feelings for Bernie, her fantasies and romantic inclinations with the simple comfort of waking beside her, held by her, but she tries not to think on it too much. What she knows is that there is a comfort in the bubble that is Bernie's presence, in Bernie's bed, and although it pains her to admit that this is something she needs right now, Bernie never once gives her a reason to feel unsafe.

For this, she is grateful. And if they're both comfortable curled together in the night, who is she to question? Who is she to try to change a good thing at the risk of destroying it?

*****

Serena has become attuned to Bernie’s body: the way she moves and carries herself, the sound of her footfalls echoing through the lab. Through evenings and mornings with Bernie, she learns how her body moves when she is stiff and sore, limber and warm. She learns the rhythm of her steps, the bend of her shoulders, can predict at any moment what Bernie might be doing with her hands (knows full well that they must be occupied at all times, and if not occupied, at the very least tucked into her pockets).

So when Bernie enters Serena's office with her steps off-tempo and her back ramrod straight, Serena knows she’s in pain. It's a good cover, a noble effort, and it has fooled Serena in the past, but it doesn't work anymore.

“Everything alright?” she asks shrewdly, arching a brow at Bernie as she lifts her chin just enough to be able to comfortably meet Bernie's gaze.

“Fine,” Bernie replies too quickly. And then: “Hear anything from Jess?”

So it's to be shop talk. Serena isn't the most patient person in the world, but she has had to learn a great deal of it with Bernie, both because she is an altogether infuriating woman at times and because she is not the sort of person who lets herself be bullied into talking. Serena has learned this more and more in recent weeks and is slowly coming to terms with it. 

She is content to let the conversation revolve around work for the time being, so Serena talks shop. Yes, she has heard from Jess; things are going surprisingly well in Mumbai; Siobhan has managed her first full night's sleep since relocating to the Sanctuary, no nightmares and no unintended transformations.

All the while, Serena can't help but notice the way Bernie sits, her posture as she shifts her laptop in front of her to type. She responds appropriately to verbal cues, is delighted to hear that Siobhan is improving, but her jaw is set and she never quite begins to look at ease.

Silence passes for a while before Serena mentions that, as there's nothing airing that Jason wants to watch, he's planning a marathon of World's Strongest Man reruns in a few days and they both expect Bernie to be there for it.

Bernie chuckles, glances at Serena. “Of course.”

They're silent again, and Serena can't help but continue watching Bernie, thinks she's being subtle with the brief glances. She doesn't realize how obvious she is being until Bernie lets out a heavy sigh.

“Will you stop looking at me like that?”

Serena blinks, schools her expression carefully, looks up. “Like what?”

“Like… like you're fretting.”

“I don't fret,” Serena retorts. It's a bold-faced lie if she's ever made one, but Bernie doesn't need to know that.

“Well whatever you're doing, stop it,” Bernie mutters, obviously not buying it. “It’s making my teeth itch.”

Serena arches a brow, gazing levelly at Bernie for a long moment. “Do you know you're one of two people I've ever known to use that phrase unironically?” she asks, because it's true, and because at the moment she can't think of anything else to say. “She always used it when people were doting over her too.”

“Oh, so you don't fret, but you do dote?”

“Not what I said.”

“But it's what you meant,” Bernie replies with a saccharine smile that makes Serena roll her eyes in annoyance. “Anyway,” Bernie adds a moment later, closing her laptop with a decisive click, “I am _fine._ ”

With the last word, Bernie's expression contorts; she has pushed herself out of the chair, and while she is still upright, the pain is written across her face clear as day. 

One hand goes to her back as she leans against the other for leverage, puffing out a breath. Serena practically flies to her feet. 

“ _Sit,_ ” she orders, cool and quick as ever in a crisis. And, well, maybe this isn't exactly a crisis, but she doesn't exactly know Bernie as a complainer either; she'd gone for a long time without letting Serena in on the fact that she was in pain after all. “You don't look fine to me.” Serena doesn't bother concealing her accusatory tone.

Bernie sighs, lowering herself back to her seat as Serena circles the desk. “Back’s just giving me a bit of a gyp, that's all.

“A bit,” Serena scoffs, lowering herself carefully to the arm of Bernie's chair. “What did you do?”

Bernie stiffens. Serena isn't sure if she is on the defensive or if their proximity caused the change, though she can't imagine touch between them causing a problem for Bernie at this point.

“I might have… sort of... tackled Eddie?” Bernie finally admits.

Serena blinks. “And… why would you do that? Show me where it hurts.”

“Here. He tried to make off with Errol's food. I know how hard those beetles are to come by.”

“So you tackled him,” Serena observes flatly, exploring Bernie's lower back with her fingertips, massaging the tender area deftly, gently. Eddie is a sturdy creature, so she's not terribly concerned, especially considering that Bernie hasn't brought it up until now. She _is_ rather concerned about the state of Bernie's back.

“Maybe not _tackled,_ so much but… Good _God_ , Serena.”

“Good hurt or bad?”

“Too soon to tell.”

Serena snorts, moving her hand up a little, free hand on Bernie's shoulder. “You should see your osteo.”

“Haven't got one.” Bernie says this so blandly, Serena feels her brows furrow.

“You've just suffered a severe back injury and you haven't got an osteo?” she asks in disbelief, pausing in her motions.

“I did all the therapy, Serena. Just… particular about who touches me, that's all.”

Serena resists the urge to make a quip about the fact that _she's_ currently touching Bernie, but only just. She rather doubts that the fact is lost on Bernie anyway; that makes the idea of teasing her about it lose some of its appeal.

“Right,” she says instead. “Fine.” She is, of course, sure to imbue her tone with an attitude of _not fine_. “Have you taken anything?”

“No.”

Serena wonders for a moment if Bernie has any sense of self-preservation whatsoever. Does everything else pale in comparison after a brush with death? She sighs, uses the back of Bernie's chair for leverage as she gets up off the arm of it, and circles the desk.

“Well, there's already inflammation,” she says, using the tone she keeps on standby for especially stubborn patients. She pops open the cap of a bottle of ibuprofen, pours two pills into her hand. “You're going to take these and go fetch an ice pack out of the infirmary. I'd do it for you, but I have to finish this. Stay there or go to bed; it makes no difference to me, so long as you're laying down. Shirt off, if you would please. May as well unfasten your jeans while you're at it,” she adds, keeping to a casually flirtatious tone at the last, because it feels safe, not too serious on any count “I'll be there in twenty minutes with some topical diclofenac.”

Bernie sits quietly for a moment in the wake of Serena's flurry of directions, brows furrowed and lips pursed. Serena arches a brow, tilts her head as she watches Bernie's face.

“Bernie?”

“Right. I'm going,” Bernie replies suddenly, shaking her head and tossing the pills back.

Serena realizes in that moment that she doesn't have a drink. She passes her own oversized mug of lukewarm coffee into the other woman's hands, watches her swallow the pills down, and takes the mug back. She extends both hands, offering them as support, and Bernie takes them hesitantly. Serena braces herself, keeps her hands steady as Bernie uses Serena's strength as leverage, keeping her back straight as possible while she stands.

Once she is upright, Bernie offers Serena a grim attempt at a smile and nods decisively. “See you in a bit then,” she says.

Serena takes this as an agreement to the arrangement, smiles back slightly, and sets about finishing the email she was composing.

She keeps an eye on the security feeds between her office and the infirmary, notes Bernie rifling for an appropriate ice back, watches as she leaves. A few minutes later, she disappears from the residential hallway and into her room, and Serena finds it much easier from there on out to concentrate on her work knowing that Bernie is where she ought to be and hopefully taking it easy.

She finishes quickly, and knocks softly at Bernie's door after precisely twenty minutes have passed. She pushes it open, and is pleased to find Bernie sprawled across the bed, blouse spread across her back as a buffer between the ice pack and Bernie's skin.

Bernie grunts a greeting, and Serena lowers herself gingerly to the bed.

“How is it?”

“I'll live.” Bernie's voice is muffled in the bedding.

“That wasn't the question.”

Bernie grunts again, turns her face towards Serena. “It's my answer.”

Serena rolls her eyes. “Fine. I'm going to have another look now.” She arches a brow, and can't resist adding, “Unless you just want to be difficult?”

Bernie is silent for the briefest moment before she raises one shoulder in a shrug. “Examine away.”

“Don't sound so thrilled,” Serena drawls, removing the ice from Bernie's back and laying her hand across the area. For a moment, she stays still, letting the temperature of her palm and Bernie's skin reach something closer to equilibrium.

She performs the same careful exploration of Bernie's lower back again, but finds this position much better suited to the action. “Tender,” she remarks aloud, can feel the heat of the injured muscle even now. “Nothing too serious, I think, but regular icing for a day or two will help. As will this,” she adds, shaking the promised tube of diclofenac within Bernie's line of sight.

She measures a little onto Bernie's skin, goes to massage it in. Gently, carefully, not wanting to use too much pressure on Bernie's already aggravated muscles, but she does allow herself to massage around the area a little more firmly with her free hand. Bernie groans beneath her, and Serena finds herself watching Bernie's profile, going by touch more than sight as she slips her fingers only just below the waistband of Bernie's jeans, carefully and thoroughly rubbing the small amount of gel over the affected area.

Once she is satisfied that she had done what she can for Bernie's injury, Serena lays the ice pack over her back again and smoothes her hand across it absently. It's only then that she feels a little uncertainty creep in; the immediate task over with, she feels very acutely aware that she's perched over Bernie. An injured Bernie who trusts Serena enough to put herself more or less at Serena's mercy.

It feels perhaps even more intimate than sharing her bed.

“I, um. I came prepared for a proper massage, if you'll let me,” she says, trying to keep the uncertainty out of her voice. It's true, she's brought along her favorite hand lotion as a stand-in for any proper massage oils, but she wonders if maybe this is too much, despite that she's fairly certain it's something Bernie does need.

“No, Serena, you don't have to do that.”

“I want to.” Bernie is silent for a moment, so Serena shrugs, splaying her fingers across Bernie's shoulder blade. “Look, when we injure ourselves, we compensate. And I'm sure you compensate enough in your day to day anyway. Let me have a look?”

Bernie hesitates again, but eventually nods against the bedding. “Okay,” she concedes.

“Okay.”

Serena had expected to find Bernie's back knotted up with tension, but she had not expected to find it in nearly as bad a shape as she does. She's horrified by the rock-hard tension in her traps, the knots she finds, the tightness along her spine.

“Good lord, Bernie, how do you function?”

“Same way you do, I guess.”

“I don't carry this much tension. Nobody does, Bernie.”

Serena just sees Bernie's eyebrows raise. “Apparently I do.”

Serena rolls her eyes in response. She's not quite sure what to say, feels a witty repartee is in order, but can't think of one. So instead she leans forward just a little, putting a little more of her weight over Bernie's shoulders to take some of the work off of her hands. Bernie groans loudly when Serena's thumbs knead into twin knots below her shoulders.

“Good or bad?” she asks again, taking a little pressure off for a moment.

“Good,” Bernie moans. “Don't stop.”

“ _Perish_ the thought,” Serena replies absently, lost in thought. It's one of those bizarre moments of self-awareness; she processes Bernie's response, analyses it, realises that she doesn't feel the way she might have expected if she were watching the scene play out. She is hyper-aware of her body and of the fact that Bernie's words of affirmation, her sounds of pleasure, have no effect on her whatsoever in the moment. She feels no thrill, no desire, just a rush of warmth she can only describe as affection, as care. She wants Bernie hale and whole before anything else.

She wonders for a moment how, against all odds, she came to care so very deeply for this woman.

She busies herself with Bernie's shoulders, her neck, hazards to ease her hands down Bernie's arms just a little ways, while she's at it. Eventually she moves her hands further down Bernie's back, satisfied with the work around her traps for the time being.

“I'm going to unfasten your bra,” she murmurs, fingers drumming a gentle pattern below the band.

Bernie nods, so she does. She moves the ice pack, doesn't like it being in the way, and uses the cool of Bernie's flesh and her own judgment to decide where to go gently as she manipulates muscles down the length of Bernie's spine. The heel of her hand glides down to Bernie's sacrum; her fingertips make the journey to her atlas. She stretches, moulds, soothes - runs both hands along the curve of her iliac crest.

She doesn't realize she's humming until Bernie's voice breaks the spell. “How are you so _brilliant_ at that?”

The quiet immediately following the question is deafening to Serena, and she feels a little self-conscious, feels relieved that Bernie can't see her blush. She's not quite sure why she's embarrassed, except maybe because she had been so caught up in the moment, but Bernie certainly doesn't know that.

“I, um, picked up some new hobbies while at Harvard,” she says, hesitating for a moment before continuing the massage. “Needed something to take my mind off my studies, and massage was a good fit. Suppose I had sort of a natural affinity for it; the class taught me how to use my anatomical knowledge a different way.”

Bernie makes a quiet noise of acknowledgement, clenches get fingers in the bedding when Serena comes a little too close to Bernie's injury.

“Sorry,” Serena says, knowing without asking that she has hit a raw spot.

“'s’okay,” Bernie mumbles back, body relaxing into the bed again. “What were you humming?”

Serena flushes again, laughs dismissively. “Erm, Edith Piaf,” she replies. “Though for the life of me I couldn't tell you the name of the song.” It's true, for all that she had grown up listening to the French chanteuse, she can't quite place the lyrics, much less the title.

Bernie is silent for a moment before speaking, voice so quiet Serena almost doesn't hear her. “You have a nice voice.”

“Ah… thank you.”

A span of silence passes, but although Serena finds time passes comfortably enough between them without dialogue, the silence feels strange. She finds herself humming again, gaze searching the sparse freckles sprinkled across Bernie's back, the two small moles on her shoulder and at the base of her ribs, even as her hands continue working Bernie's muscles with slow, patient movements.

But her hands, although accustomed to holding surgical tools for hours on end, aren't quite conditioned for hours of this. When they begin to cramp up a bit, she replaces the ice pack on Bernie's back.

She doesn't think about lying down beside Bernie, she just does; realizes the renewed intimacy of the situation when her eyes meet Bernie's from where her head nestles in the pillow. They are nearly close enough to breathe the same air; an inch or so closer, and she could feel Bernie's every exhale.

“I'm sorry,” Serena blurts out softly before she can stop herself. Bernie has a way of wearing down Serena's defenses, of drawing things out of her without trying. Even now, without a word, Serena can feel herself caving under the weight of the energy between them, under her own care and concern, under Bernie's understated acceptance. “For, um. For everything.”

Bernie's brows furrow; her eyes darken. “Serena, you don't - ”

“No, I mean… for calling you a liar, and… I never apologised, after Helen.” She stops abruptly, takes a deep breath, but is startled by how calm she feels. She's not overwhelmed, although she does wonder if she ought to be.

But Bernie's face is soft and her eyes are warm, and she lifts a hand to graze her fingertips across Serena's arm, and honestly, Serena feels safe. Really and truly _safe_.

Bernie bends her arm, rests her hand on the bed between them, and Serena feels brave enough to cover it with her own. She wraps her fingers around Bernie's palm, feels Bernie’s fingers fold over her own in response. And she smiles - she can't help it - and the barest glimpse of a smile shines back in Bernie's eyes.

Serena is loathe to break the spell of these moments, but it's inevitable. There is too much to do, and it's early in the day yet. She sighs, giving Bernie's hand a squeeze before pushing herself upright.

“Okay,” she says reluctantly, offering Bernie another warm smile. “Stay here. I'll be back in a while with fresh ice.” For a moment, it looks like Bernie is going to argue, so Serena frowns and adopts a stern tone again. “You need rest. Or at least your body does. We'll soldier on without you for the day. Tomorrow too, if need be, and you will not argue with me about it.”

Bernie makes an irritated noise, clenching her fingers in the bedding. “I'm not good at doing nothing.”

“Well,” Serena replies, arching a brow, “you'd better get better at it fast.”

“Not likely.”

Serena smirks. “I'll be in and out. And I'm sure Finn and Jason would be more than happy to check in on the big, macho army medic.”

“Oh, don't,” Bernie groans, but Serena can tell she doesn't mean this as an ultimatum.

So she merely shrugs. “I can't watch them all the time, Major.”

“But you can avoid telling them I'm a cripple.”

“Are you kidding?” Serena practically crows. “And lie to Jason when he asks where Major Bernie is?”

Bernie snorts, then dissolves into a proper chuckle, burying her face in the bedding. “Fine,” she mutters, voice muffled almost beyond intelligibility. “But I’m going to need reading materials.”

“That, darling, is something I can provide.”

 _Darling._ She says the word without thinking, an endearment reserved for those truly dear; Serena doesn't make a habit of tossing such terms about lightly. It slips out without giving her time to think, to parse, and when she realizes she's said it, she stands there for a moment, vaguely aware that she very likely resembles a fish out of water.

Bernie, for her part, is silent for a beat. Just as Serena begins to become uncomfortable with the quiet, however, she finds her voice. “If you've got any new medical journals, I'm a bit behind,” she says; Serena can almost believe that she hadn't noticed her slip of tongue. “I've been spending so much time studying abnormals, then all _this_ ,” she says, flapping her hand vaguely. Serena understands this as commentary on all of the recent political happenings.

“Of course,” Serena replies, latching into it as safe harbour. “Wouldn't do for our resident trauma surgeon to fall behind on the latest techniques.”

“I think I've already fallen behind. Looks like I have plenty of time to catch up though.”

*****

Finn and Jason turn out to be surprisingly good caretakers. Finn thinks the story of Bernie’s injury is entirely funnier than it really is, but Serena keeps her lips sealed, because it's the first time in weeks she's heard the usually light-hearted boy laugh. Jason picks out some articles he found particularly fascinating for Bernie to read, judged on a scale balanced between ingenuity of technique and gruesome attention to detail. Jason sets a timer to keep Bernie on a tight ice-and-rest schedule, leaving Serena largely free to continue business as usual.

She peeks in a couple of times, of course, finds Bernie napping a little after lunchtime, evidently knackered from a very lively morning of lying about and reading medical journals. Serena keeps things relatively impersonal when she checks in again, gives Bernie's back a good once-over and is pleased to find that the inflammation has gone down.

They have a quick curry for tea, nothing extravagant, and Serena eats with Bernie, cross-legged in her bed. It's generally not something she agrees with, eating in bed, but she doesn't want Bernie trekking through the long Sanctuary hallways just to get down to the dining room. So she keeps Bernie company before going about her evening business: she cleans up the dinner dishes, does the evening feeding, finishes up the day's reports, kisses Jason goodnight.

She arrives at Bernie's room again with a fresh ice pack and finds Bernie curled on her side sleeping. Serena suppresses a chuckle, knows what it's like to be closeted away without much to do and how tempting sleep can be despite—or perhaps, in part, because of—the inevitable restlessness. When Serena lowers herself to the edge of the bed and reaches out to touch Bernie's arm, Bernie doesn't wake up, just mumbles something unintelligible. Serena decides to forgo the ice for now.

She doesn't really _decide_ to stay with Bernie, per se. She just _does_.

She awakes surrounded by such warmth it leaves her in a daze. She can feel Bernie’s nose against the nape of her neck, the tilt of Bernie's brow against her head; her arm is balanced across Serena's hip, long fingers tangled into the bedding in front of them. 

She lies there for a few moments, slowly waking up, processing the too-warm, too-comfortable feeling of Bernie's body curled around her own. Then she wakes up enough to remember she already as good as confessed her feelings for Bernie, and that Bernie has done the same. 

It hasn't been a topic of discussion since it happened. They have quietly skirted the issue, maintained close physical intimacy (in Serena's case, holding onto it like something of a lifeline) without the romance. They haven't done much of anything Serena wouldn’t do with any close friend, not really. She tells herself this, anyway; sometimes she does wonder.

Yet, this, _this_ ; such close contact with Bernie: the emotionally-shuttered, infuriating woman, who's spent so much time on the opposite side of the bed since Serena first sought her out for comfort. It’s a little overwhelming. That it should happen after the only night in which Serena had not sought out express permission to stay, well...

Serena finds herself thinking, unintentionally of course, of rolling over in Bernie's arms, kissing her, dissolving into her as the sun rises. Of whiling away the dawn in each other's arms, of—

 _Stop it,_ she orders herself firmly. She feels Bernie shift behind her, realises in that moment that her own body has gone rigid. She tries to relax but feels Bernie withdraw a little, and immediately regrets even that small absence. 

On impulse, before she can second-guess herself, she turns over and plants a quick kiss on the first bit of Bernie's face her lips can reach, which turns out to be the lower part of her cheek, just beside and above her mouth. It's abrupt, she knows, so she keeps the touch gentle, withdrawing swiftly to gauge Bernie's reaction.

Bernie looks like the breath has been stolen from her. Then she stirs, blinks, casts her eyes searchingly across Serena's face. 

Serena watches her eyes for a moment, then brushes a few stands of blonde hair back behind Bernie's ear. She wants to tell her she's beautiful, with the dim, predawn light giving her the faintest halo. Even more, she wants to wait until full sun, to watch Bernie's hair come to life with golden, ethereal light. It's a sight she's seen, once or twice, one she loves but doesn't dare to dwell on. 

Bernie's gaze finally settles, their eyes meeting, and Serena's stops thinking altogether. Their lips meet and even the tang of morning breath doesn't keep her from sinking into the kiss, her fingers splaying against Bernie's cheek while Bernie loops an arm snugly around Serena's waist, drawing their bodies close together. 

This is so much better than her brief wondering, because it's _real_. 

She clings tighter as they kiss and kiss, mouths slow and soft and exploratory. Bernie makes small, muffled noises of pleasure; Serena hums softly at the back of her throat. Serena shifts, presses her lips to Bernie's chin, feels the small mole there against her lips, feels Bernie's breath hitch against her cheek. Bernie starts to pull away and she closes both her lips over Bernie's lower one as she retreats, tugging gently, experimentally, before releasing. She feels the corners of her lips curve of their own accord.

She can't suppress the grin, doesn't even try to; watches as Bernie's lips curl into a tiny, shy smile of her own.

“Morning,” Serena whispers, a bit breathless; she withdraws a little while stroking her thumb softly across Bernie's cheek.

Bernie chuckles, one brief little note of a laugh. She doesn't reply, just slides her hand over the swell of Serena's hip, squeezing gently.

Serena loses track of how long they lie there, in seconds or minutes, until she finally moves her hand to Bernie's arm, giving it a squeeze of her own. 

“How's your back?” she asks, not because it's safe—in this moment, she does not care about safe—but because she cares, because it’s important that Bernie be healthy and pain-free. Because Bernie is one of the most important things in her life right now. Because she needs, wants, to prioritise Bernie's well-being, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world to make Bernie's health a priority—not at the expense of her own pleasure, but as an extension of it.

She likes taking care of Bernie.

“A little stiff,” Bernie answers after a moment's pause, and Serena doesn't think she's trying to hide anything.

She sits up though, slowly, rolling and stretching the kinks out of her spine as she does. Her neck pops with a particularly satisfying stretch as she reaches for Bernie's side. “On your stomach, then. Let's see.”

Bernie groans in response, and Serena fights the urge to roll her eyes. She finds, somehow, that her reaction is more fond than annoyed. “I'm fine, Serena.”

“We'll just see about that.”

But Bernie is right; she is, in fact, fine. No sign of inflammation, the tell-tale heat and tenderness of the previous day gone, though her muscles are knotted up tight, but that's to be expected.

“Heat will do wonders for that,” Serena notes after sharing her findings with Bernie, smoothing her palm across the small of Bernie's back, taking a moment to enjoy the feel of Bernie's skin beneath her hands, warm and soft. “A warm soak, some light stretching…” She trails off, absently following Bernie's iliac crest with both hands. “Nothing too strenuous, though; I want you to take it easy for the time being.”

“Serena, at this rate I'm going to get bedsores before you let me get up.”

Serena snorts at the melodramatic reaction, but arches a brow as she trails her fingers up along Bernie's spine. “I'm not confining you to bedrest,” she says (though she can't help but think that she'd very much like to confine Bernie to the bed at some other time, under different circumstances). “I'm just asking you to take it easy.

“Tell you what,” Serena adds after a moment, squeezing Bernie's shoulder. “You agree to two back rubs and at _least_ one nice, long soak with some bath salts, and you can do whatever you want.” She thinks over this for a moment, Arches a brow as Bernie make a noise that sounds like a stifled chuckle. “Except go for a run,” she amends. “And you're out of the feeding schedule for the day.”

Bernie is quiet for a moment, then shrugs a shoulder. “That doesn't sound so bad,” she says. Serena imagines a twinkle in her eye, and bursts out laughing.

“Because it's not. I'd pay good money for a decent massage,” she banters.

“You're not charging a consulting fee?” Bernie teases back.

“Should I? I could send Lotus the bill,” Serena suggests schooling her expression into the picture of serious contemplation. 

Bernie snorts, buries her face in the pillow. “Fat lot of good it’d do.”

“Hmph. Then no,” Serena replies, leaning forward a little, adding her weight to the massage she'd begun almost without thinking.

“Use my tub for that bath,” she says after a span. “It's nice. Tall, perfect for a good, long soak. Bath salts in the cabinet beside it. Use whatever you like, so long as you use them; they really do help.”

“Serena, I couldn't impose.”

Serena barely resists the urge to laugh outright. “I don't know why you'd think it's an imposition to use my bath. It’s not like I’m using it. Besides, I've been using your bed while you've been in it for weeks,” she reasons cavalierly, then catches up to her thoughts. It makes her feel a little small, a little fragile, but it also makes her think very fondly of Bernie. She’s pulled in different directions over the act of sharing Bernie's bed. It's an odd feeling and she's still not quite sure where she stands in all this.

A long silence passes, and she lets her thoughts wander as she works her hands across Bernie's back, underneath her shirt, rucking it up with her wrists until she moves her focus up from Bernie’s lower back. She gives more attention to Bernie's shoulders, to the knotted-up tension of her traps, till she checks the time after a bit and finds it's time to start their morning.

“Why don't you go ahead and have that bath,” Serena suggests, giving Bernie's back one last rub. “Fresh towels are already in there, and everything should be easy to find. I'll get the morning feedings done and then Jason and I can start on breakfast. That should give you plenty of time to relax, ease some of that tension out.”

“You sure?” Bernie is still obviously uncertain; Serena can't possibly fathom why.

“Of course. You know where my room is.” Serena stands, adopting a playfully stern tone once she's out of bed and on her own two feet. “So come on, up out of bed with you, soldier.”

Bernie's grumbled response is endearing despite its unintelligibility; Serena notes the twinkle in her eye when Bernie rolls over to lever herself upright. They only break eye contact when Serena winks—honestly, how can she resist? Bernie flushes a little, drops her gaze.

Serena feels her lips curl into an unwitting, satisfied smile again. She just manages to keep herself from chuckling as she turns for the door. She glances back before she leaves, can't help the impulse to make sure Bernie can make it out of bed without too much trouble. Only when she's satisfied that Bernie has two feet planted firmly on the floor does she leave—wordlessly, and with a smile she can't quite hide.


End file.
